


Of Time Lords and Men

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Time Travel, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is about to throw himself off the top of St. Barts when the Doctor appears and tells him that there's more out there, things he can't even imagine and to throw his life away now would be foolish.  The Doctor asks him if he would like to accompany him on his travels.  John accepts on one condition: that the Doctor won't try to stop him the next time.</p><p>"If there is a next time, John Watson."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be confusing to write, but, luckily, I have it all planned out. This is actually the first fanfiction I've ever bothered to plan out from beginning to end, probably because it is so much shorter than my other ones.  
> There will be sex scenes later on, so you have been warned.
> 
> This is unbetaed and unbritpicked.

The ground looks so far away from him as he glances over the side of the roof at the walkway below.  John wonders if Sherlock felt the same way that he does at this moment, fear bubbling under the outer layer of pure calm, thicker than his skin.  He's terrified beneath it, looking down at Sherlock's last view, but he beats it back.  He doesn't need it right now.  He just needs the fall.

That's all that matters.

He lets a foot move out into the air and lets gravity take hold, his arms outstretched look like Sherlock, but his eyes closed.  He doesn't have the same courage Sherlock had that day, able to stare death in the face.  John already did that every single day in Afghanistan and now he's done, blocking off his sight to the maw of death.

There are hands on him, stopping his fall, pulling him back from death and he growls and twists, trying to beak free from their grip.  How dare they mess with fate?  He was meant to die that day.  He could feel that fact in his bones as though it had been carved there.  He opens his eyes, prepared to spit venom at Mycroft and his crew, or maybe even Lestrade.

But he finds himself looking up at a man he has never seen before.  He was wearing a tweed jacket over a nice dress shirt, suspenders keeping up his trousers, and a bow tie snugly tugged up against his neck.  His hair was floppy, bangs hanging over his right eye as he stares down at John.  And on his head was one of those ridiculous deerstalker caps.

Death Frisbee.

Ear hat.

He shakes his head and looks back at the man, a stranger that went out of his way to save a mysterious man about to throw themselves off the top of a hospital roof.  The man is smiling shyly, knowing full well what he has done and waiting for the backlash.  He looks a little lost when none comes.

"I was just passing by and couldn't help but notice you from above," John glances up, though he knows he'll see nothing there, "All you humans are so wonderful in your own ways.  Why do you feel the need to throw your life away like you have nothing to exist for?"

"Because I do have nothing to exist for."

"Preposterous.  Humans always have something to exist for.  In all my years, I have never met a human who is not important."

"Well, congrats, I'm your first."

"Do you really think so little of yourself?"

John gave the man nothing more, only getting up to dust himself off and casting a forlorn look at the edge.  The man moves as though to stop John from trying a second time, but John knows he's not going to try again today.  Death had been singing in his blood not moments before, but now it was silent.  He would wait for the voices to rise again before he gave it another try.

John moves to leave, but the man stops him, "Come with me?  See the world the way I do?  I'm sure it would do you good."

John pauses, thinks, considers.

"Where would we go?"

"Everywhere," the smiles he gives is childish, but it makes John ache for Sherlock.  The man holds out a hand, waiting.

"What do I call you?"

"The Doctor is fine, and you?"

"John Watson.  If I agree to accompany you, you won't stop me next time?"

"If there is a next time, John Watson."

John takes his hand.

* * *

**John has gone missing. – MH**

Sherlock is on his feet immediately, furiously typing out a reply to his brother’s vague text message.

**What do you mean he’s gone missing?  Surely your surveillance team is not that incompetent.  Where is he?  - SH**

**We don’t know.  – MH**

**Where was he seen last? – SH**

**On the roof of St. Bart’s. – MH**

**Did he jump? – SH**

Sherlock was even more worried now, pacing the small hotel room at a frightening speed.

**I think we would notice that, brother. – MH**

**Well, then where did he go? – SH**

He growled in frustration when a reply did not come in within seconds.  He opened his contacts and pressed on his brother, calling him.  He held the phone to his hear and listened, tapping his foot against the leg of the chair next to him until he decided that was not enough and went back to pacing.

There was a click, “I was just about to call you as well.  This is not a conversation we should be having though restricted texts.”

“Where is he?”  Sherlock hissed, gripping the phone so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t break.

“As I’ve said, brother, I do not know.  It’s like he’s simply vanished.”

“That’s not possible!  Do better or I’ll come back and do it for you.”

“Now, Sherlock, you know that you need to stop Moran first before you can-“

“I’m perfectly aware of what I have to do, Mycroft.  I’m almost on him.  I’m doing my job.  You, however, seem to be neglecting yours.”

“Sher-“  Mycroft’s voice had a warning tone to it, but Sherlock bit through it.

“Don’t even, Mycroft.  I gave you one job.  Look after John, make sure he stayed safe.  Missing is not safe.”

“At least he’s not broken on the ground, which he would have been if he had gone through with his plan.”

“So he was going to jump,” Sherlock gipped his hair tightly n his hands, “What stopped him?”

“My men tell me it was man.  He pulled him off the edge.”

“Who?”  Sherlock screamed the word.

“We don’t know.  They pulled a picture of him from the new camera on the roof; I’ll be sending it to you after this conversation.  Now let me speak, and don’t interrupt me.  For John’s sake,” at the quiet that came from his words, Mycroft deemed it okay to continue, “We’re running his face through the facial recognition program as we speak, but so far no results.  We don’t really expect to get one if he’s one of Moriarty’s followers, but even that possibility is small.  They say his face was that of genuine concern when he pulled John back, perhaps a patient or a visitor.  We’ve gone though the cameras of the exits and entrances of the hospital, but never saw him enter or leave.”

“Then they must still be in the hospital.  That’s the only explanation,” Sherlock was back to pacing moving smoothly around the furniture in the room.

“We've checked every room, every floor.  No part of that building went unsearched.  He’s just gone.  We don’t know how they did it, but they’re both gone.”

Sherlock hung up on him, not even bothering to give his brother any more words.  A minute later, his phone chirped with a text and he opened it, downloading the attachment.  The picture was grainy, but the two men in the picture were clear.  John was leaning heavily on his “uninjured“ limb, his psychosomatic limp had returned, something Mycroft had failed to mention to him.  His face was weary and drawn, like a man who never slept, who stayed awake to stare at the walls and listen, wait.  He silently cursed John for latching onto him so much.  He could have moved on after all these years, found a life that didn’t have consulting detective Sherlock Holmes in it.  But yet he couldn’t blame the man.  He was doing the exact same thing, latching onto John Watson and never planning to let go of the doctor.

The other man looked like a child stuck in a human’s body, his shoulders thrown back, thumbs tucked into his suspenders and a smile on his face as he looked at John.  And his hat.  Sherlock shuddered as he took in the hat.  He had never figured out that hat and figured that he never would be able to.  It was a completely illogical piece of headwear.  His stature was relaxed and open, his smile almost contagious, the glee seemed to radiate from Sherlock’s phone.  He didn’t seem to be hostile, far from it, really, but that was how Moriarty had seemed when they had first met him, just a gay man working at a hospital.  Nothing strange there.  So as Sherlock studied the man on the screen, he burned the man’s face, his body into his mind.  If he ever saw this man again in his life, this man would wish that he was dead.

He pocketed his phone and stood there, lost for the first time since that time on the roof, wondering what he should he do, which route he should take.  His whole body was screaming at him to take the same route he did last time.  Save John, keep him safe at any cost.  But he knew bringing Moran down also helped with that, plus the man may have information about John’s whereabouts if he hand in this.  He gave a little nod, trying to tell himself this was the best route to take and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.  There was no point is standing around, waiting for the next move to open like a game a chess.  He would push through this time, make his own move against the rules of the game.  No.  This wasn’t a game anymore.  This was war.  Moran just didn’t know it yet.  Sherlock would make sure he never did find out.

* * *

In disgust, Sherlock slid the knife out of the man’s neck, the blade sliding out with a squelching noise.  Blood pooled out of the wound.  Moriarty may have not been one to get his hands dirty, but Sherlock had no problem with it as long as it kept the ones closest to him safe.  He liked to imagine he was like John and his gun, though he knew he was nothing like that.  It just felt better to think that way, delude himself into thinking like that.  Better to keep what little of his sanity he had left in check.  Wiping of the knife, careful to brush off any fingerprints on the surface before pocketing it again.  There was really no point in cleaning it, just to keep it, but he just wanted to play it safe in case he needed to leave it behind.  Not that he had anything else to do.  He had done what he came to do.  Sebastian Moran was dead, strapped to the table in front of him.

Sherlock hadn’t let him die peaceful, using every form of torture he had been able to produce with what little he had.  He had finally slid the knife home when he was sure he had gotten all he could.  None of which involved John.  Sebastian had actually seemed genuinely surprised when Sherlock had emerged form the shadows of the room, pulling him into a headlock.  He hadn’t broken easily, but he never had a word to say about John.  It was as if the man had forgotten about him, even after aiming one too many guns at the doctor’s head in the past.  It was a dead end here, the man was better off dead and Sherlock was ready to head back home.  There would be no John and the thought weighed down his heart.  He would find him, though.  Once Sherlock set his mind to something, he never stopped, like an out of control train.

* * *

He hadn’t seen John for over half a year after his return from the dead.  Every lead he thought he had had crumbled in his hands and in the end he emerged with nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  It was infuriating.  How could a man disappear without a trace, no clue as to where his or the other man’s whereabouts were?  It was as if they had never existed in the first place, gone from the earth.  He was frustrated, angry at himself and everyone around him, lashing out at every little thing.  Lestrade had finally dragged him out of the house on multiple occasions, feeding him a case like a treat on a string.  It was working for the meantime.  It took his mind off of John if only for a few hours a day.  But when he was back home at the end of the day, in his empty cold flat, his thoughts only consisted of John.  His mind whirling through a million scenarios about what could have happened to him, where his body could have been discarded.  None of them were correct.  He knew.  He had checked all the locations in London with no luck.

He was back on drugs, keeping a stash of heroin hidden in his bedroom for when he needed it.  He tried to keep the fact hidden, but he figured his brother knew.  His brother always knew, looking at humans like books with facts written clearly upon them.  But he didn’t say anything, didn’t drag Sherlock to see any help, didn’t tell anyone else.  And for that, Sherlock was grateful.  The last thing he needed was for Lestrade to be on his back about his drug problem again, telling him to go get help or he’d be off the case.  Sally would be smiling smugly at him from the background, the word ‘freak’ hanging in the air over him like a banner.  He wasn’t addicted, nothing like he had used to be like.  He could go a week without plunging a needle into his arm.  He had it under control.  John would have been disappointed in him nonetheless.  He could hear his voice in his head, telling him just that.  That he was nothing but a machine, he could never care for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

The dead woman spread out in front of just that Sherlock was just that: dead.  But it was the manner in how she had died that intrigued Sherlock.  She looked to be well over seventy years old, her white hair cut short, framing her face.  Her wallet lay open before Sherlock, all the bills and cards removed from their leather binding.  It was a mugging, that much was obvious, Sherlock didn’t need to see the empty wallet and stab wounds to know that.  Everything was gone from her person.  Her keys and ID, even.  But the most peculiar thing was that, according to a blood sample they had gotten from the woman and almost immediately gotten a match on, her DNA was 100% identical to another woman’s; a sixteen year old who had been brought in for assault the previous year.  It was puzzling, even to Sherlock.

He glanced up at the teenager, who had been brought to the scene for questions, accompanied by her mother.  As Sherlock studied her, glancing back at the old lady in front of him, he had to admit their faces were eerily similar to the point where, if Sherlock didn’t know any better he would say they were the same person.  If anything, he would say the machines had been wrong, that it wasn’t 100% match, but close to it.  This woman was probably just a relative of some sort, ties severed with the family.  That had to be the only possible explanation.  However, he stayed squatting down by the body, his mind whirling.  It wasn’t right.  It didn’t feel right.  Something was off about this case and that just made his permanent frown deeper.

“Hey, who are you and what-“ Lestrade’s voice cut through Sherlock’s thought process and he was about to turn and snap at the man when Lestrade went quiet.  Now his curiosity really was peaked, for whoever it was to silence Lestrade that quickly.  He hadn’t even heard them speak in reply, they must have shown a badge or identification which mean they were high up.  This case was getting even more interesting by the minute.

Finally Lestrade spoke again, “What’s a Mugging Specialist?”

“Oh, that’s what it says?”  A new voice said, sounding surprised, “I wanted it to say-   I mean… it's a new position.  Relatively new, yes.  Quite brand new.  Most people don’t know about it yet, no need to feel ashamed about that.”

Lestrade seemed to be shocked into silence at the moment and Sherlock heard the new man pat the inspector on the shoulder, rustling clothes as he brushed past him.

“So what have we here?  Oh, stab wounds.  Not good.  Very not good,” The man was behind him, peering down at the woman, but Sherlock didn’t turn, trying to block out the man’s annoying voice, “And how have you been Sherlock?”

Now the man had his full attention.  He stood sharply, “How is it that you know my name?”

“Oh, well, I’ve heard about you… you know… newspapers and such.  You are big news, you know.”

“Let me guess, you’re going to ask where the ridiculous hat is?”

“Ridiculous?  No!  Of course not.  Deerstalkers are cool.  So are bow ties.  And fezzes.  All hats are cool.  Though River doesn’t seem to agree.”

It was with those words that everything clicked.  The face from the picture finally had a voice to go with it.  He spun on his feet, his teeth flashing like a savage animal’s.  He felt like one, too, ready to rip the man’s throat out with his fingernails if he had to.  If he wanted to, and he wanted to at this moment.

“Where is John?”  He snarled shoving the man up against the side of a building hard enough the knock the man’s head against the wall.  He gave a little whine in protest, but other than that, said nothing but stare at the man.  He had been correct, the man in front of him was the man from the picture.  The last person to have seen John alive, “You stopped him from jumping from the roof, but what did you do to him then?  Where has he gone?”

“I did nothing to him, merely offered him a chance to live again.  He took it.  He’s quite all right.  In fact, he’s somewhere around here so if you’d please let me go…” he trailed off, smiling at Sherlock as though the man didn’t have him pinned up against the wall, but instead asked him to a cup of afternoon tea.

“What the bloody hell is going on, Sherlock?”

Lestrade.  Sherlock had already forgotten that everyone else existed.  Donovan looked absolutely ecstatic at the prospect that he had finally snapped.  No point in giving her any more satisfaction and, if the man was being honest, then John was fine.  He tried to get a read on the man, but kept drawing up blanks.  His clothes were the exact same as those in the picture, minus the cap, as if not even a day had gone by.  Either that or he only had one outfit.

“This is the man who was last seen with John,” He answered, still not backing down, his hold still fast on the man.  He seemed to realize Sherlock didn’t plan on letting go and for the first time, his smile dropped and became a frown.

“I really think you ought to let me go,” the man murmured, pulling at Sherlock’s fingers, “You’re wrinkling my shirt.”

“Oh for the love of-  Bloody hell, Sherlock, let him go!”  Sherlock dropped the man like he was on fire, following the voice, one he recognized and sent a shiver of relief down his spine.  John.  The rest had turned to look at him as he approached, torch in hand and a frown on his face as he stared at Sherlock.  He looked less tired, Sherlock noted, his limp completely gone again.  His hair was longer, too, no longer cut close as if he was still in the military, while his body remained straight and rigid, no amount of time out of the line of duty would break him of that habit.  And he looked downright pissed at Sherlock.  Not that that was something new.  But he also seemed angry at the man as well, something he seemed to be oblivious about.

“Oh, John!  There you are!  I was just telling Sherlock here that you were around,” He strode over to stand in front of John, “I think this is our first visit.”

“You never were good with time, were you?”

“No, not particularly.”

That was when John’s fist slammed into the man’s face and Sherlock could only cringe, remembering full well how to felt to be on the other side of that fist.  The man reeled, hand up against his cut cheek while John moved back, unruffled, tucking the torch under his arm so he could run his hand over his knuckles.

“Wha- what was that for?”

“It means you’ve done something stupid,” Sherlock answered, moving forward, but stopping once he saw something in John change, taking a step back from the approaching man.

“First time you’ve seen me, huh?”  Sherlock nodded in reply, “How long has it been?”

“Seven months, two days, and around 15 hours since you disappeared.”

“Still not as bad as your disappearing act,” his attention left Sherlock and landed back on the man who was tending to his wound with this fingertips, tapping them against the bleeding cut as though that would do a thing about it, “Come on, Doctor.  We best be moving.  They’re close.”

“They?  The Angels?”

“Of course the Angels.  Why else would I punch you?   You left me alone to fend them off.”

“Well they weren’t around when I was with you.”

“That was their intention.”

The man, Doctor as John had called him, sat with his mouth open in a silent ‘Oh.”

“Well, sorry,” he shuffled past John, “Best be on our way, then.  Make sure they don’t cause any trouble because of us.”

“What in the bloody hell is going on?”  Lestrade stalked past Sherlock, who had since then lost the ability to walk.  Or move for that matter.  John’s words felt like a wound deep in his stomach.

“That woman was murdered,” the Doctor said, pointed at the body with a frown, “Bless her soul,” even Sally’s eyebrows went up at the genuine hurt in his voice, as though he had known the woman personally, “Most likely by someone who owed her a great deal of money, judging by the ferocity of the crime.  There was hate behind it.  I would suggest looking into her contacts or if she rents out flats.”

“What about the girl?”  Lestrade pointed at the teenager who had been a match.

The Doctor moved forward, his voice hushed, “That is her as a teenager,” Lestrade began to roll his eyes, but the man continued, “She was sent back by an alien called a Weeping Angel.  They just look like statues to you until you blink or look away.  It’s their survival mechanism, they strike when their prey isn’t looking.  They feed off of time energy and create some by sending their victim back in time.”

Now Sherlock tried to interrupt, but John was beside him, joining in on the huddle, “It’s true, Sherlock, time travel is possible.  I’ve seen it, I’ve witnessed it,” Sherlock stayed quiet, moving ever so closer to his friend, waiting for the salt when he would move away, but he didn’t this time.

“I don’t know when she was sent back in time, but it’s obvious she made the most of it, becoming wealthy by the look of her clothes.  That’s why you should look for someone who owed her money, who has a grudge,” he was looking at Lestrade expectantly and the man finally sighed, pulling out a tiny notebook and scribbling it down.

“You’re even more out there than Sherlock is, and that’s saying something.  You’re walking on egg shells just like he is and if I find out you broke them, you’ll have me to worry about,” he gave all three of them a look which meant he was in charge.  Sherlock just snorted and rolled his eyes, having heard this speech before countless times and had never seen the man actually take action about it.

There was a small blip from the Doctor’s pocket and he reached into his jacket, pulling out some sort of contraption.  He pressed a button on the side and it gave out a little whirring noise before he released it.  It gave another blip and his eyes widened in alarm.

“What is it, Doctor?  What’s wrong?”

“I’m really sorry.  I wish we had more time to explain on this trip.  Next time will be more relaxing but right now the Angels have the TARDIS!”  He ran off, leaving John behind in his haste.

“I don’t think a day goes by where we don’t run,” he looked at Sherlock, “Just like my old life.  I’d best be going now.  He’d be lost without me or a companion, really.”

He took off without so much as a goodbye and it wasn’t until he disappeared around a corner that Lestrade harshly shoved him in that direction.  Sherlock glanced at him and the older man nearly tilted his head in the direction John had disappeared.  It only took another, more gentle nudge for him to start moving after the shorter man.  He walked quickly first before breaking out into a full on sprint, bracing his hand against the wall when he spun around the corner.  The street was empty.

“John!”  He yelled, jogging forward to the middle of the street and looking around, “John!”

“I’m here, I’m here!”  He turned at the voice to watch John run over to him from a side street, stopping only once he was in front of Sherlock.  They were standing only a foot apart and Sherlock still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that John was alive and-

“We thought- I thought you were dead.”

“Well that’s something we both thought.”

He wanted desperately to reach out to the shorter man, his hand inching forward until he clenched it into a fist and pulled it back to his side, “Will I ever see you again?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know?”

“Time travel, Sherlock.”

“I’m still adamant about that.”

“In due time, you’ll change your mind Sherlock.  This is my fifth visit, I suppose, though it wasn’t meant to be a visit.  Just happened to bump into you, is all.  We were just stopping because the Doctor wanted to pick up some fish fingers and custard or something equally as disturbing.  I refuse to eat his food half the time unless it looks decent,” he smiled softly before reaching out and grabbing Sherlock’s clenched hand.  It uncurled softly in his grasp.

“On my first visit, I punch you so get ready for that.  My second you mope and I ignore you, and on my third,” he ducks his head, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “Well, it’s all good I suppose.”

“What happens?”

“Can’t be giving you details of what hasn’t happened yet, now can I?  Just know that it isn’t bad.  I least I hope it’s not.”

“And the fourth?”

“You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“But-“

“I’ve got to go, Sherlock.  Goodbye,” and without asking he wraps his arms around the man, pulling him in tight against him, his head tucked under the Sherlock’s chin.  Without thinking, Sherlock returned it, holding onto the man.

“You sure I’ll see you again?”

“Yes, Sherlock.  100% certain you’ll see me again.”

John gives him one finally squeeze before easing out of the embrace and taking off, giving a wave over his shoulder as he disappeared again.  Sherlock waved back despite himself, too busy lost in thought.

He got rid of his heroin that night.


	2. Chapter 2

To say Sherlock was restless for John's next visit would have been an understatement.  He had even declined a few cases that would have previously interested him in favor of looking up everything he could find out about the Doctor and his "TARDIS."  He had even gone so far as to hack into government databases, much to the irritation of his brother, who would come by to "visit" every time he got word of what Sherlock had done.  In reply, he had just played his violin over Mycroft's words, smiling to himself that his brother didn't even know about half of his government adventures.

Torchwood Institute.

That was the best result he got from his searches.  That, and a few papers on alien attacks, those which he had regarded as boring or faked, but never disposed of.  They had interested him to a degree to save them from that.  Not much was known about Torchwood, to his annoyance.  It was separate from the government, its own organization, and even the government wanted to know more about them.  They didn't seem to be active anymore, but it was the best leaf he had.  He researched a bit more on the subject, finding where most of the activity centered around.  Cardiff, Wales.

Sherlock Holmes was going to Cardiff.

* * *

Cardiff was boring.

There was nothing of interest in the city, and certainly no aliens running amuck in the streets.  Sherlock wasn't really sure what he had been expecting from the city, but it certainly wasn't this.  He found himself drawn toward the bay, where more people were milling about, standing in the middle of Roald Dahl Plass.  He found himself hating the name.  Why would they choose to name a place after an author of all people?  At least there were people around to distract his mind.  The soft breeze coming from the water made him draw his coat tighter around himself.

His eyes were drawn to a telephone stationed in the middle of the plaza.  It was a blue police box, circa the 1960s.  Why would such an out of date object be stuck in the middle of a plaza?  Finally his interest was piqued.  He trotted over to the blue box, staring at the windows, hardly glancing at the sign on one of the doors.  He reached out and touched it, pressing his palm flat against the wood.  If he wasn't mistaken, it seemed to be thrumming with energy.  Excited, he pulled the doors open.

The inside was nothing but the inside of a police box.  He was bored again.  He picked up the phone and held it to his ear.  Silence.  The device wasn't even connected, but that was about the extent of his interest.  He slapped the dead phone back down and exited.  He frowned at the box as he slammed the doors back shut.  He traipsed off to find something else.

* * *

"How was your trip, brother?"

"Boring."

"So you didn't find what you were looking for, I take it?"

Sherlock didn't dignify Mycroft with a response.  No need to.  He already knew the answer by the way Sherlock plucked at his violin strings.  John would have said he was sulking if he was around.  Mycroft glared at him for a bit longer, clutching his umbrella in his hands add he say on the sofa.  Sherlock refused to let anyone sit in John's seat beside tbd man himself.  Sherlock hadn't even bothered to offer his brother any tea, connect to let Mycroft glare at him as he played his violin.  A figure suddenly appeared in the doorway.

John.

His violin playing screeched to a stop and he bounced up with a smile, "Hello, John.  Would you like some tea?  Coffee?"

"Tea is... good," he still seemed unsure, staying in the doorway.  Sherlock ushered him in and grinned even wider at the expression on Mycroft's face as John walked over, taking of his jacket and placing it on the back of his armchair before sitting down in it with a content sigh, settling into the chair.  Sherlock had moved off, budding

"Hello, Mycroft," John said, nodding at the still man sitting on the sofa, staring at the the man.

Finally Mycroft cleared his throat, straightening his already straight tie to try and get his air of superiority back, "Hello, John.  It's nice to see you.  How have your travels been?"

"Oh, you would love to know," John smirked, not giving the man an answer.  Mycroft gave him a tight-lipped smile in return, clearly not amused.  Sherlock was back, placing a tea down in front of John with a smile and settling down with his own cup.  Mycroft was still neglected.

“What visit is this for you?”  John still hadn’t taken up his tea, looking at Sherlock expectantly, as though waiting for a certain number.

“Second.”

John deflated a little, “Oh, okay.  It’s my fourth.”

“Oh, so that’s why you said I’d figure out what happens soon enough.”

“Pardon?”  The tea cup paused halfway to his lips.

“It’s for another time.”

He nodded, “There are no drugs in this are there, to keep me here?”  John asked, his tone serious, but his eyes laughing.

Sherlock smiled, “Who knows,” taking a long sip from his own tea.

John smiled back and finally began to drink.  Mycroft looked completely out of place and uncomfortable now.  Just the way Sherlock liked his brother.  Finally Mycroft had had enough and stirred, getting up from his seat and holding his umbrella’s handle.

“Well I’ll leave you two alone.  It was nice seeing you, John,” another tight-lipped smile, “You certainly caused a lot of trouble with your disappearance.”

“And your brother didn’t with his?”  John smiled back coldly, but sent Sherlock a warm glance that made the detective relax again.

Mycroft sighed and moved toward the door, “Yes, it was definitely nice seeing you,” he stopped, “Will I be seeing you again?  Will you be staying?”

“No, I will not be staying, but you will be seeing you again.  I’m sure you’re overjoyed about that.”

“Don’t get me wrong, John, I enjoy your presence.  You make my brother more tolerable,” with that he turned and left.

John finished his tea first, despite Sherlock starting before him, though he finished right after.  John picked up both their cups and took them to the sink to clean them, his habits already clicking in again.  Sherlock followed after him, not liking being separate from him for a second for what was sure to be another short visit.  They stood in silence, John cleaning the kettle and cups while Sherlock stood to the side, fiddling with his experiments, one which involved the effect of acid on different kinds of rocks and cement.  He pretended not to notice that John was glancing over at him every few seconds, eyes darting back away quickly as soon as he did.

John set the clean dishes aside and leaned against the counter, “So how long has it been since you last saw me?”

“One month.”

“Hmmm,” John chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully before blurting out, “What were you doing in Cardiff?”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to John, “How did you know I was there.”

“Because I was there, too.  I was out of sight though, sorry.”

Sherlock stayed quiet, his mind whirring with the facts and pictures he had in his mind from his travel until some of them finally clicked a bit, “The blue police box,” he said, though he was a bit uncertain.  He just knew that there was something off about that out of style blue box.

Apparently he had been right though, as John’s eyes were alight with wonder, as they had always been before, “Amazing,” he breathed out the compliment, then frowned, “I didn’t tell you about the TARDIS your first visit, did I?  Because if I did, you’re cheating.”

“No, you mentioned nothing about the TARDIS.  The blue box just seemed out of place and out of time.  Enough to spark my interest.  So that’s the time machine or whatever?”

“Yes, that’s the time machine, though it stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space.  TARDIS is just easier on the tongue.  So why were you there in the first place?”

“Torchwood.  Know anything about it?”

“I’ve heard it mentioned a few time, but I never asked questions.”

Sherlock sighed as though this was the worst thing anyone could have ever done, “Have you no sense of curiosity, John?”

“I personally think you have enough for the both of us.  Speaking of that, are you on a case at the moment?”  John asked, pushing off the counter.

“No.  Lestrade keeps pestering me to take one, but I keep telling him I have more important matters to take care of.”

“Like going to Cardiff and staring at a blue box?”

“Well you were there, weren’t you?”

“So that’s a no?  You’re not on a case?”  John seemed a bit sad at the thought, and Sherlock’s thoughts clicked together almost instantly.  John wanted to accompany Sherlock on a case.  He gave a small smile.

“I’m sure I can convince Lestrade to let me in on one.”

John’s smile was back.

* * *

“This is probably one of the most boring cases you have ever taken,” John commented as they left the house of the woman they had just questioned about her dead boyfriend.  Well, John had been doing the questioning, Sherlock had been invading her personal space and touching everything in her home.

“I had to pick from what Lestrade had.  Don’t be picky,” he frowned, flagging down a cab that immediately slid to the kerb.

“I’m not complaining, I’m just surprised.  I never would have taken you as one who would take a case like this.”

“You wanted to go on a case with me,” he slid into the cab and John entered after him, not saying anything, but smiling at Sherlock.  He sat closer to Sherlock than normal, hand out on the seat between them, centimeters from Sherlock’s own hand.  The detective cast an odd look down at the hand, glancing up at John who was staring out the window, taking in as much of London as he could, nostalgia in his eyes.  But he didn’t say anything, kept his hand by John and didn’t move away.

“So where are we going?”  John finally asked, not know the address Sherlock had told the cabbie.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “To the boyfriend’s secret apartment.  I thought that it was obvious.”

“To you, maybe.  I didn’t even know he had a secret apartment.  How did you know?”

“It was obvious, really,” he scoffed, “The boyfriend had a agenda book I flipped though.  He goes to quite a lot of meetings for a simple graphic designer.  I found a card slipped into the book from around the time of the first so called meeting with an address on it.  Obviously it is the address of the meeting place, but it’s in a residential area, not a business area.  The writing on the card was his, meaning he wrote it down himself to make sure he would remember it.  But the fact he would write it down suggests he needed it for more than just remembering, he needed it to tell others the address.  It’s his apartment for sex.  We’ll find the murder scene there as long as they did not bother to clean it after dumping the body into the Thames.  The wounds on the body suggested it was a act of rage, done by someone close to him, done without thinking.  They probably panicked after.”

The look John was giving him made him smug, but his face remained a mask, while inside he was grinning, feeling as if he had achieved something from this.  Mostly like he had gotten John back, though he knew he hadn’t.  This was only his fourth visit and Sherlock knew he had at least five.  He wondered if John would ever have a sixth visit.  But for now he settled into the warmth of John, not fully content with what he had, but wanting to make the best of it while he could.

They were quiet the rest of the ride, nestling into each other’s company.  When the taxi came to a stop, they both climbed out after paying the fare and shook off their own thoughts.  The apartment building in front of them definitely wasn’t the most upscale of places.  In fact, it was quite the opposite.  But that was to be expected from a man who didn’t want his girlfriend to know that he was cheating on her with however many women he had been.  Probably normal in this setting to pay for the rent with cash as well, easier to not leave a trail in his wake.  He was a careful man, but not careful enough.  Sherlock smiled.

He went up and inspected the buttons, John hovering behind him.  Finally choosing one, he pushed the button, listened to the buzzing.  The woman who answered sounded less than happy about the interruption and Sherlock barely gave an excuse as to why he was there before they pressed the button to unlock the front door.  Sherlock slid in with a smile, holding the door open for John.  Two flights of stairs later and they were at the right apartment.  Sherlock slid on his gloves and picked the lock quickly sweeping the door open when he was done.

The front entranceway was clean enough, no blood splattered on the walls, which John was glad to see.  There were keys hung up near the front door and Sherlock only had to glance at them to dismiss them as the man’s own house keys, kept there and forgotten.  He moved on, moving right to the bedroom.  The door was open a crack, and he nudged it with just a finger.  It creaked open, finally greeting them with the horror scene they had been looking for.  Blood was on the bed, the walls, and even reaching up to the ceiling; the arc of the blade coming down had been wide.  They had cut an artery as well, so that probably helped with the blood splatter.  Sherlock looked as though he had just won the lottery.  John just sighed at his expression of glee.

He stood to the side, letting Sherlock do his thing, muttering to himself as a mad man as he glanced at all the objects in the room, pulling out his small magnifying glass to see every speck of detail he could.  John left him to that, meandering out of the room to try his luck at some of the other ones.  The bathroom seemed to be the best place to start.  As he slid his jumper sleeve down over his hand, he paused as he notice the dried blood smeared over the knob.  As cautiously as he could, he turned the knob and entered.  His eyes immediately flickered down to the knife left on the floor in a small pool of blood.  There was blood smeared over the sink as well, showing that the killer had run into the room to clean off their hands, most likely panicking when they saw how much blood was truly on them.

He pulled aside the shower curtain.  More blood in there.  They had taken a shower to wash the blood off their entire body, probably with their clothes still on, too panicked to even remove the articles of clothing.  There wasn’t much else in the room for John to look at, but he was no Sherlock.  He was certain that Sherlock would be able to step into the small, cramped bathroom and see more than John could ever hope to see.  That was just what made Sherlock Sherlock and John John.

“John?”  Sherlock’s voice broke through the quiet, and John almost missed the twinge of panic and dread laced into the word.  Almost.

“I’m in here, Sherlock.” He answered and Sherlock pushed open the door, relaxing as soon as his eyes fell on the doctor.  Sherlock straightened, trying to act as though nothing had been wrong.  John smiled, “I’m not going to leave without saying goodbye, Sherlock.”

“No, of course not.  Why would you think I would think any different?”  He was flustered and that just made John chuckle under his breath, giving a small shake of his head.  The man could be overly stubborn at times.  No, scratch that.  Overly stubborn at all times, “Go question the neighbors.  I’ll check the rest of the rooms.  Oh, don’t give me that look.  How many times have I told you that you’re better with people than I am, so get out there.”

He moved past, letting his shoulder brush against the taller man’s as he left the room.  At least Sherlock was being sensible by letting John do the asking for once.  He usually made a mess of things if he was left in charge of that or even if he just came along, promising to stay quiet, he would ruin everything.  He left the apartment, careful to keep the front door open a crack so he could get back in when he was done.  He approached the door across the hallway and hesitantly knocked on the door.  It was quiet for a while and he was about to move away when he heard shuffling on the other side.  It cracked open and an old woman stared out from the opening.

“Hello, ma’am,” John smiled, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions concerning the resident of the apartment across from you.”

“What do you want to know about that man?”

“Is there anything you can tell me about him?  Have you heard any disturbances from his apartment?”

She scoffed, “Disturbances?  Only always.  He brings over woman all the time.  I’m sure that’s the only purpose for that apartment.  I always know when he’s over because it’s noisy.  These walls aren’t thick, you know.”

‘Of course,” he scratched the back of his head, “But have you heard anything else?  Arguing, maybe?”

“Not much of that.  More sex than arguing.  But last night there was a fighting match.  I don’t know what it was about, really.  I turned up the volume on my telly because they got so loud.  They quieted down after a while and took a shower before leaving.  I’m guessing they just had angry sex.  A kink, you know?”

John cleared his throat, “Well, thank you, ma’am, for answering my questions.  You can go back to your own business now,” he flashed her another smile and she closed the door with a click.  He moved onto the next apartment, knocking onto the door.  He kept  going from apartment to apartment, working down the floors slowly but surely, learning nothing more than he already did.  It wasn’t until he got to the first floor that he finally found out more.

He knocked on one of the doors near the front entrance way and waited.  There was the sound of movement, then silence until the locks clicked and the door opened wide.  A man in his twenties stood there, his hair gelled up, highlights in the dark brown style.  He grinned widely at John and John found it contagious, sending back a small smile.

“Hello, sir, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions,” though he didn’t really expect to get any answers at this point.  He had been getting less and less as he moved away from the actual apartment.

“Are you with the police or something?”

Oh, great.  This was the first time someone had actually bothered asking him that question, usually they just took them in stride, answering them in quick fire succession so they could get the stranger off their doorstep.  Now he wished he had taken the Doctor up on his suggestion that he take his psychic paper.  It would have made this easier.

“Um, no.  Not really.  Kind of…”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m a private consultant of sorts.  Well, more like a partner to a private consultant, who refuses to call himself such.  He prefers consulting detective.”

The man brightened up, “Oh, Sherlock Holmes?  I heard he was back in business.  I never doubted him, you know.  You must be John Watson, then?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

The man held out a hand, shaking John’s enthusiastically, “Well, if you want to ask me some questions, come right in.  I’ll make you some tea.”

“I don’t want to-“

“Nonsense, just come in.”

John stepped into the apartment and the door shut behind him.  Something wasn’t right, a feeling of dread settling into his stomach as he took another step into the threshold.  The man moved over to the kettle, filling it with water before turning on the stove and placing the kettle on a burner.  He turned back with a smile, but John didn’t miss the flicker of his eyes to a cracked open door to the side.  John studied it out of the corner of his eye and though he couldn’t see anything through the opening, he could feel someone watching him.  They weren’t alone.

"What is it that you want to ask me, John?"

"Dr. Watson."

"Oh, sorry!  I didn't mean to offend."

“I'm here to ask you about a resident a few floors up.  He showed up dead this morning, stabbed in the chest multiple times."

"Poor bloke.  But I don't know how to help you.  I don't speak with the others much unless their on my floor, and even then we don't talk much," the kettle started to whistle and he turned to take it off the stove.  John took this moment of his back turned to study the open door more, trying to see if there was anyone in there, listening to their conversation.  If he was Sherlock, he would have just walked over to the door and thrown it open in a grand manor.  But he wasn’t Sherlock.  He still had some manners left.

“If you don’t know anything, then I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”

“Oh, no, please stay.  I’ve always been a fan of Sherlock, maybe you could-“

“I really must be getting back to him.”

“Oh, he’s here.  Can you introduce me to him?”

“I’d rather not,” John turned toward the door and heard the man move quickly behind him.  He turned sharply just in time to see the man raise a gun, bringing it down sharply on his head with a crack.  John tumbled to the ground, lost in the black.

* * *

“John?”  Sherlock called out as he heard the front door creak open.  When no reply came, he peeked out of the living room door.  A man stood in the front entrance way, his hair spiked up.  As soon as he saw Sherlock he grinned.

“Ah!  So you are here.  To be quite honest, I didn’t really believe Dr. Watson when he said he was here with Sherlock, but I guess he was telling the truth.  You really did rise from the dead.  How’d you do it?”

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder, though I doubt your brain could comprehend how.  Where is John?”

“Dr. Watson?  He left, said he had somewhere else to be.  Why?  Is that-“

But Sherlock was done listening to him, pushing past the man to rush out the door.  The man called after Sherlock, but he ignored him and kept moving.  He took the stairs two at a time, fear gripping at him.  John had promised he would say goodbye, that he wouldn’t just leave.  He wouldn’t go back on this promise, would he?  It wasn’t because Sherlock asked him to question the neighbors was it?  Maybe he wanted to spend more time with Sherlock no matter what, even if it meant questioning the other residents together.  John had always seemed exasperated when they did that, but he had stayed by Sherlock’s side anyway.  Was that the reason?  He thought Sherlock had dismissed him?  No, that couldn’t possibly be it.  John wasn’t like that.

He couldn’t think straight, his mind a whirlwind of questions and hypothesis, with no conclusion to go by.  He barreled out of the front door of the building, skidding to a stop on the sidewalk, glancing up and down in hopes of seeing John.  Familiar John.  A woman passing by him, gave him a nod before working her key into the door of the apartment complex and disappearing inside.  He paid her no mind and moved on, heart heavy.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at it.  No texts from John.  Of course, now that he thought about it, did John even have his cell phone still?  Probably not.  He pocketed the device again and, with a heavy heart, hailed a cab.

He was back home in his empty flat fore only a few minutes, already deciding he would give up on the case, text Lestrade that he had lost interest in it, when the doorbell rang.  Mrs. Hudson was out at the store, so that meant Sherlock had to open the door.  He considered not moving for a moment when he wondered if it was John having lost his key.  He bounded up immediately, hopping down the stairs.  But when he threw open the door, a very different man was standing in the doorway.  As soon as Sherlock appeared, he brightened up, leaning forward to air kiss on either side of Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock, lovely day we’re having, isn’t it?  Though it’s a bit cloudy,” he frowned, “Is London ever not cloudy?”

“Doctor,” he breathed out the word and the man brightened even more, if that was possible.

“Oh, good, so this isn’t our first time meeting.  I was scared for a moment.  Is John here?”

Sherlock’s brain stopped until cog by cog it clicked back into motion, facts and pieces he had missed piecing together like pieces in a puzzle.

“That man and woman,” he growled, leaving the Doctor confused at his doorstep and running back up to his flat to grab his coat and scarf.  The Doctor waited patiently at the doorway for him to return.

As Sherlock came back down, running past him, he yelled out, “Is that a no, then?” He sprinted after Sherlock, “I’ve run a lot in my days, but why are we running this time?  Is it something to do with John?  Is something the matter with him?”

“He’s been kidnapped,” Sherlock hailed a cab once they were on a more busy street, barely giving the cabbie time to stop the car before he jumped into the back seat, the Doctor right after him, excitement on his face, layered by a mask of concern.  Sherlock was seething in rage, his hands gripped tightly together as he thought of every possible way to kill the man that had shown up in the apartment and perhaps the woman who had entered the building, too.  He couldn’t believe he had missed them, dismissed them so quickly without a second thought.  Of course John wouldn’t leave him like that.  This was John, not himself.  The man and woman were connected, he could see that now, and either one of them would do to tell him where John was.

He didn't want to waste time talking to someone to let them in, so Sherlock got out his tools to pick the lock.  As he was about to start, the Doctor pushed him gently to the side, pulling out his strange device.  He pointed it at the door and after a strange whirring sound, the lock clicked and he opened it easily.  He pocketed it with a smile.

“So where are we going now?”

“Back up to the murder scene.”

The Doctor frowned, “Murder scene?  I don’t know maybe I should just wait down here.  I’m not a fan of violence or blood.”

“Fine, wait down here.  It doesn’t matter either way,” Sherlock ran up the steps, quickly making his way back to the apartment, using his tools on this door.  As soon as he stepped inside, he knew everything had changed.  The smell of bleach hung in the air.  Someone had been in here cleaning; he just hoped they still were.  He hadn’t been gone long.  He crept to the bedroom door, slowly opening it until finally pushing it open quickly ready to fight.  Except no one was there.  The cleaning up was messy, sloppy, but it got the job done.  No more DNA evidence and, undoubtedly, they had given the bathroom the same crude treatment.  But there was no one there, that was the important issue.  He spun on his heels and left.

The Doctor was still waiting down in the front lobby when he got back to the bottom floor.  He perked up when he saw Sherlock returning, but instantly deflated a bit when he saw the scowl on the man’s face, before it was replaced with a thoughtful frown.  As Sherlock pushed past him, ready to hail another cab, the Doctor grabbed his arm and Sherlock turned on him, fire on his tongue.

“Does he still have his cellphone with him?”  Was all he asked.

So he did still have his cellphone.  Sherlock mentally kicked himself for not trying it out at least, “I suppose.  Unless they took it off him.”

“Better than nothing.  Can you give me yours?”

If he was just going to call John, Sherlock wondered why the Doctor didn’t just let him do it, but something told him that the man wasn’t going to do something that simple.  He handed it over and the Doctor pulled out his glowing green stick thing again.  Scrolling through the contacts until he John, which really didn’t take that long; Sherlock didn’t have that many people to put in his contact list.  He pressed call and immediately turned on his device.  It beeped after a while and he immediately ended the call, handing the phone back, though the device was still making noises.  He turned, keeping it in front of him until the regular whirring sound was heard.  With a quick wave of his hand, telling Sherlock to follow, he took off.

The weaved through alleys and streets, Sherlock recognizing each one and saying their names as they made their way to wherever the device was leading them.  They were heading toward the warehouse district and the closer they drew to them, the more his blood boiled.  The sound zeroed in on one warehouse and they stood outside, wondering how to go about this.  The sudden eruption of the noise of a scuffle from inside made both their minds and they charged in without a plan.  They raced past boxes and equipment to the source of the noise just in time to see John head butt the man that had come into the apartment with Sherlock.  The man fell and John reeled back, grimacing.  The woman was already unconscious on the ground.

“John!”  The Doctor cried, hopping over to the man to steady him.  Sherlock beat him to it, slinging an arm around the man.  In his free hand, he held John’s Browning.  He couldn’t even recall pulling it out.  John leaned against him, holding his head, while the Doctor just stared at the gun in horror.

“You all right, John?”

“I’ve been better,” he chuckled, “but I don’t think hitting him with my head was the best idea I’ve ever had.  It was already injured to begin with.  I may have a concussion.”

The Doctor swept his device up, stopping to stare at it once he was done, “No, you’re good.  No concussion, just a bruised head.”

That was good news.

“Why do you have my gun, Sherlock?”

“You left it at my flat when you disappeared.  I brought it along just incase I needed it.  You always needed it when I was involved, so I-  Do you want it back?”  He held it up.

“No, I’m good.  The Doctor doesn’t like guns and I respect that.  Keep it.  You’ll probably need it.”

Sherlock nodded and tucked the gun away, returning it to the back of his trousers.  He helped John out of the warehouse, the Doctor following behind, and if John leaned on Sherlock a little more than necessary, Sherlock didn’t say anything.  He didn’t mind.

The case was finally over, police and medical workers brought to the address of the warehouse, with Lestrade personally questioning John, Sherlock and the Doctor so they could finish it quickly.  The Doctor stood to the side when his questions were done, squirming where he stood like a five year old until the questions were done and they were told they were free to go.  Sherlock wished Lestrade had drawn it out for once.  He knew once they were done, John was leaving again.  A hug and a “see you soon” later, they parted ways and Sherlock looked after John, a frown on his face as he watched the shorter man walk away, smiling up at the Doctor.


	3. Chapter 3

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks since he last saw John and while it wasn’t as long of a wait as the last visit, it left Sherlock restless, practically crawling up the walls.  Mrs. Hudson fussed over him, not sure why he was behaving so erratically lately.  She knew John visited, had to learn it from the newspapers from the case the two solved.  Sherlock still cursed at himself for that case.  It had been so simply, really, so easy to see if he hadn’t been so hung up on the fact that John was accompanying him.  Lestrade had told him that it wasn’t really that obvious, but to Sherlock it was, as bright as the sun now.  The earth rotated around the sun.  He remembered that now.  He told Lestrade that and the man just gave him a funny look.  John would have appreciated it, he would have smiled.  Sherlock wished he could redo the case, solve it faster and spend more time with John.

And it really was so simple!  Girl has sexual relation with a cheating boyfriend, thinks she’s the only one in his life.  Though, really, it should have been obvious with the state of that apartment, but she was distracted by the sex.  Man by entrance takes a liking to her, talks to her, gets close to her.  Catches her running away from the kill and helps her.  Insane, deranged.  It was simple, really, but he hadn’t seen it at the time and John had paid the consequence, though the shorter man had handled it quite well.  Sherlock wondered if his time with the Doctor was full of mishaps like that as well, as their time together had been.  If so, why would John ever want to come back to him when he had an alien in a police box?  He could never think of an answer as to why.

Heroin was looking good again, taunting him from back alleyways, his cash burning a hole in his pocket when he passed a usual trading point in a cab.  But he didn’t go back, not yet.  He still hoped John would change his mind and come back, move back in as though nothing had happened, no death, no disappearance.  They would fall back into their lives as if they had never left, trading jokes, teasing Mycroft, getting on each others nerves but always ironing out the wrinkles.  Sherlock wondered if he’d ever be able to smooth out the wrinkle that was his fall.

John had never asked why he did it, but he supposed he already knew, had asked on his first visit.  He wondered when that would happen.  Maybe it would be Sherlock’s last visit, when John never came back.  John hadn’t mentioned how old Sherlock had been for that visit.  Maybe he had been eighty and John was just being polite, not mentioning that fact.  Sherlock wished he had if that was the case.  He would rather ask to join John and the Doctor on their shenanigans than stay here alone.  John completed him.  He had realized that when falling through the air toward the pavement below.  He hadn’t been whole until John had entered his life.

It physically hurt him to be without him.

There was nothing to do, no text from Lestrade with a case, definitely nothing from Mycroft’s area, and his look into the Doctor had met a dead end, much to his disappointment.  There was nothing for him to do by try and think up new experiments, stashing more body parts into the fridge devoid of food.  John would have scolded him.  Three weeks.  And Mrs. Hudson wondered why he could stay still for more than a second.  He huffed.  Shouldn’t it be obvious?  Their minds really were so simple.  He wondered how they did it, managed each day.

He pulled on his coat, making quick work of the buttons, but keeping the collar popped up.  To look cool, that's what John said it meant.  Sure maybe he did flip up the collar a bit too much after solving a case, but he liked to think it was because it was cold out, even with a scarf already knotted around his neck.  He pulled that on next, tying it just right, they way he had been for years.  He stared at the wall for a while, a frown on his face.  The flat was depressingly quiet, Mrs. Hudson not even moving around downstairs to help at all with the matter.  He remembered Mycroft jokingly telling him he should get a cat to keep and give him company.  He frowned deeper, as he was actually thinking about doing just that.  He turned on his heel and made for the stairs, planning to go to see his homeless network and see if they had anything for him.

He reached for the building’s front door when he heard it.  There were people squabbling outside the front door in heated whispers and what sounded like the rustling of a newspaper.  One of the voices was rising while the other continued on in a low, steady murmur until the first one rose high enough that recognition sparked in Sherlock’s brain.  He threw the doors open and the two men turned to stare at him, a newspaper between them.  They had been trying to wrestle it from one another.  He rips it out of both their hands, holding it up to look at the article it was opened to: ‘John Watson Finally Breaks up with Sherlock Holmes.’  Sherlock huffed, folding the paper under his arm.

“Isn’t it bad to be reading the newspaper?  Are you trying to cause a paradox of sorts, John?”

“Thank you, Sherlock.  That was what I was saying,” the Doctor smiled, leaning back on his heels.

John just pushed past Sherlock, “We’re not a couple!  How can we break up if we were never together?”

“That’s all you were complaining about?  Idiotic as always,” Sherlock was teasing him, but the glare John sent his way felt like a knife.  He paused, and the Doctor moved in beside him, closing the door.

“It’s his second visit; he wanted to make sure it wasn’t your first,” the man offered as an answer to Sherlock’s confusion.  Oh.  It still felt awful, regardless.  The door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat opened as she peered out to see who was out in the front area, causing so much racket.  As soon as her eyes landed on John, she sprang out of her flat as fast as her hip and achy bones would allow her.  John threw his arms open and drew her into a hug.  Sherlock could hear her sniffling into his jumper as he held her close.  Finally she pulls away and dabs at her eyes with her fingertips, wiping away the trails of tears.  She pokes him in the chest.

“And where have you been, young man?”

“You know… around.”

“So I’ve heard,” she frowns, but it’s lost as she grips his bicep with a smile and a shake of her head, “Sherlock’s even more unbearable with you gone.  Worse than how he was before you came to live here.  He won’t sit still, but he won’t leave his sitting room either.  Day in, day out.  Pacing.  That’s all I hear.  And then he yells about something when he’s frustrated but no one’s there to listen,” she pats his arm now, looking around John to frown at Sherlock.  He sighed and shuffled his feet, shoving his gloved hands into his coat pockets.  If he had been a little faster, he probably would have missed John.  He was glad he had stayed those extra seconds, even if this John wasn’t the nicest.  He frowned.  No that wasn’t how it was.  This was the same John, just earlier on in his timeline, that was all.  He just still had some adjusting to do.  He seemed perfectly fine for his fourth visit.

“Would you like some tea?”  Sherlock offered quietly.

“Oh, yes.  I would love some tea,” the Doctor smiled, while John and Mrs. Hudson looked at him in bewilderment.

“You make the tea now?”  John turned to Mrs. Hudson, “Are you sure he didn’t hit his head during one of his fits?”

Sherlock led them upstairs to the flat, quietly stripping off all his outdoor clothes again and hanging them back up.  He left the room to go to the kitchen after watching John sit down on the sofa, not his regular chair.  Now Sherlock really wanted to know on his John’s first visit besides him punching him in the face.  Sometimes he really hated this time travel thing.  He wished that it didn’t exist, that he had had never discovered that it existed.  Or, to be more precise, he wished that John had never met the Doctor.  He sent a glare through the walls in the Doctor’s general location.  In the sitting room, the man suddenly shivered, glancing around.  John looked at him with a quirked eyebrow and the man waved away his concern, getting up from the other part of the sofa to explore the room, giving the eerie skull on the mantle piece a wide berth.

Sherlock worked on autopilot in the kitchen, making the tea and setting it out into three cups.  He had nothing else to offer with it, though.  He made John’s tea as the man had always done, hoping that would get him on his good side, if only a little.  He brought them out on Mrs. Hudson’s tray, which she had left up in his kitchen the last time she had come to take care of him, despite her constant opposition to being his housekeeper.  He set it down and plucked John’s cup from it, handing it over carefully as though it would break.  For some reason he felt like it was their friendship.  He didn’t like that thought.  John took it from him, but refused to look in his eye and hardly have him a nod in thanks before settling back with his tea.  Sherlock settled into his chair, curling up in on himself, his knees under his chin, a frown tugging at his mouth.

“Don’t touch that,” he suddenly said to the Doctor, who jumped in shock, sure Sherlock was not able to see him from his location.  He was right.  Sherlock couldn’t see him, he just knew the alien man was moving a little too close to his violin where he had left it earlier the other day after screeching out an angry tone, which ended in him almost snapping one of the strings.  The Doctor shuffled back to the sofa, settling down next to John.  Sherlock’s frown deepened as he saw them sitting next to each other.  They drank in silence, at least those two did.  Sherlock refused to pick up his own cup of tea.  It grew cold as he instead kept his eyes focused on John, waiting for him to say anything, be back to normal.  But John ignored him.

Finally Sherlock spoke up, “What brings you to London?”

“There were some strange signs in the area that I thought we should check out.  John wanted to check in on you.”

“No I didn’t.  Don’t lie, Doctor,” John murmured into his tea, drinking down the last of it before getting up, placing his cup back on the tray, “I think it’s best we leave now.”

“But we just got here, John!  It would be rude to leave so suddenly,” the Doctor tried to argue, but John was already leaving through the door.  The Doctor sent Sherlock a sympathetic look, which was lost on the man as he just stared back with half a glare.  The Doctor set down his cup as well and was halfway to the door before he spun back around, pivoting on one heel, “Actually, Sherlock, would you like to join us searching for whatever is creating this strange signature in London?”

The man didn’t even have to ask twice.

* * *

 

“You’re telling me that what we’re looking for is in there?”  John asked, looking at the building in front of them.  But it wasn’t just any building.  It was Scotland Yard.

“Oh, Lestrade is going to love this,” Sherlock grinned, marching forward to push open the front doors dramatically.  All heads turned as he entered, the Doctor and John not far behind.  Sherlock strode forward with confidence until he reached Lestrade’s office.  The silver haired man glanced up at him, mouth open to retaliate when he saw the other two enter his office after Sherlock.

“Oh, John, Doctor.  I haven’t seen you two since-“ Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand and Lestrade went quiet, “Earlier visit.”

“Yes.  Now, Lestrade,” Sherlock flashed him one of his trademarked smiles when he wanted to get something, “We’re here to investigate something.”

“And by something, you mean…  I need details, reasons here, Sherlock.  You usually have one or two ready to use up your sleeve.”

Sherlock frowned, “Well, you see, this unfortunately isn’t really my area of expertise.”

Lestrade looked around Sherlock toward John and the Doctor, who were still hovering in near the doorway, John looking like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was.  The Doctor just looked like a five year old shoved into the body of an adult, as usual.  Giddy no matter where he was.

“So it’s their area of expertise, is it?  What is it this time?  The Weeping Angels again?”  Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes as he took a step back from the desk to glare at Lestrade from more of a distance, “Oh, right.  Sorry.”

“Weeping angels are here.  Oh, that is bothersome,” the Doctor was wringing his hands and pacing.

“What are weeping angels?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know, John.  They’re frightening creatures.”

“Well it sounds like I’m going to find out eventually.”

“Correct.  Eventually.”

John frowned and changed the question, “Fine.  Do you know where whatever it is we’re looking for is?”

“No, no, not yet,” he was playing with his device as he moved, smacking it against his palm every few seconds when the pitch of the sound changed until finally he let out a little “aha!” in victory.  He held the thing up in the air like a torch before pointing it at the ground, “It seems to be coming from below us.”

“Like in the holding cells?”  Lestrade offered, putting down his coffee.  He knew he would need something stronger to get him through the day with these three.

“Who’s down there?”  Sherlock spun on Lestrade.

The man opened up the files, glancing through them, “A few low level crooks, some kids in for vandalism, a suspect for a murder charge, and a woman.”

The Doctor perked up, “A woman?  What does she look like?”

He was smoothing his hair back with his hands, as though he was trying to slick it back before a date.  He already knew who was down there, but had decided to ask to make sure that he was correct.  Waste of brain usage.

“If you already know, Doctor, then why are we still here?”  Sherlock was already walking out of the room, leaving the three of them to stumble after him.  Lestrade had picked up his coffee again, figuring it was better than nothing.  The Doctor had moved to the front of the group by the time they reached the stairs, John pushing past Sherlock to stay with the man.  Sherlock stopped, watching the two men move down the stairs.  It hurt.  Lestrade stopped next to him, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee before he spoke up.

“What visit is this exactly?”

“The second,” Sherlock sniffed in contempt as though the very notion sickened him.  Maybe it did.  Just a little.

“Rough.  But it can’t be as bad as the first visit, can it?  I mean, it’s got to be worse, then.  He’ll be furious with you.”

“He told me he punched me,” John had disappeared around the bend now, “But that’s better than this.  I’d rather have him openly angry at me than deciding that I don’t exist.”

Lestrade shot him a sympathetic look that was lost as Sherlock moved after the two men again, taking two steps at a time to catch up.  Lestrade moved a bit slower after them, from being older than them and not wanting to lose his precious liquid that kept him awake and made dealing with Sherlock just a bit more manageable.  A bit.  The police officer that was guarding the cells was refusing them passage, much to the irritation of Sherlock, which the guard seemed to be sporting a cocky grin about.  Just before Sherlock was about to start spouting off facts about the man that would surely do nothing but make the police officer angry, Lestrade pushed past them.  Immediately, the man stood at attention and let them through.  Lestrade gave them him a nod of thanks.

The Doctor was back in front again, leading them right to the cell where the woman lay, facing the wall.  He hopped over to the bars, pressing against them as he stared in at her seemingly sleeping form.  He was smiling as he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, hands running through his hair again.

"Hello, River dear," he called into the cell and immediately the woman stirred and turned to look at them.  She smiled when she saw the Doctor and got to her feet, stalking over to the bars.

"Hello, Sweetie," she leaned forward and gave him a small peck of a kiss through the bars,

"You're late."

"Late?  I only got the message a few hours ago."

"Then where were you a few hours ago?"  Another kiss.  If this was their way of flirting, Sherlock didn't understand it and judging by the look on Lestrade's face, neither did he.  Not that that was saying much, but at least he knew more about relationships than Sherlock did.

"I was busy.  Your message was cryptic and didn't seem urgent."

"Busy doing what?"  Her eyes looked over the rest of the group.  Her gaze was unsettling and Lestrade took a sip of coffee to put his attention on something else, nearly choking on the mouthful when she sent him a smile.  He sputtered and turned to look at the wall.  Her attention went back to the Doctor, deeming the others not worthy of her attention.  Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms.  Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw John’s lips twitch into a small smile at his action.  Sherlock stood up straighter in victory.  John noticed and the smile disappeared, replaced by a military man.

The Doctor and River were still talking, but Sherlock had lost his interest in her.  He had been hoping to find some sort of alien down here in the cell, maybe wearing human skin to stay hidden.  What he hadn’t been expecting was the Doctor’s lover.  He was bored.  And he told them so, moving back the way he had come.

“Leaving already, Gloomy?”  River seemed to purr at him.  She was probably used to getting an answer with that voice.  Shelock thought she was nothing compared to Irene.

“You’re boring.  Human.  No dead bodies,” he shot over his shoulder, moving past the policeman, who shot him a look much like one Donovan would give him when calling him Freak.  Or just being in his presence.  He didn’t like the look, but he lived with it.  He could stand it more than other things.

“At least give me your name before you go?”

Now that he couldn’t help himself from answering, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, I know of you,” she sounded surprised, “I’m quite a fan of your work.”

He couldn’t stop his right foot from taking a step back, “Are you now?  How do you know of me?”

“Oh, god, please don’t tell him anything.  No point in inflating his ego,” John grumbled.

“You’ve changed since I’ve last seen you, John.”

“I wouldn’t know.  I’ve never met you before.”

“That explains it.  I guess the grumpiness goes away later.”

“Oh, he usually quite happy,” the Doctor interrupted, “Sherlock just puts him on edge at the moment.”

“If by edge you mean the edge of murdering my old flatmate, then, yes, I am on edge.  I should have punched him more than once,” John was frowning deeply, fists clenching.  Sherlock really wasn’t looking forward to the first meeting.  He didn’t mind being punched, but beside that, he wasn’t sure how John was going to act after figuring out that he was still alive.  That his fall had all been an act with him just one member of the audience.  In fact, he was dreading it more than the fall itself.  His eyes stayed on John for a moment too long and he knew everyone noticed his stare.  John probably knew what he was thinking.  He had always had a way with Sherlock, able to see what others couldn’t.

“There are books written about you,” River was talking to him again and he reluctantly looked back at her.  He had moved back into the main part of the room without realizing it, finally intrigued by what she was saying.

“Books?”

John groaned, rolling his eyes, and Lestrade seemed out of place so much he looked to be in pain.  River just grinned widely.

“Oh, yes.  A lot of books.  I can’t remember the author of them, probably best not to tell you anyway.  They follow your adventures and cases.  I absolutely loved the one where they introduced Irene.  She’s my favorite.  Sorry, boys.  I was positively delighted when I found out she wasn’t dead.”

It was dead silent.  Sherlock could feel the exact moment John went past thinking of killing him into wanting to actually kill him.  Sherlock did the only thing his genius mind could think of at the time.  He turned and fled.

“Oops.  Spoilers?”

It wasn’t until he had subconsciously walked to St. Barts did he stop.  He felt stupid.  Childish.  Both things he had been called many time before in his life.  But usually he never felt that way.  Now he did and he didn’t even have to wait for anyone to insult him with it.  He glanced up at the rooftop, remembering that fated day, before his eyes flickered down to the entrance.  He wondered if Molly was in.  He walked through the front door, his feet following the familiar path to the morgue.  He pushed the doors open and his eyes landed on Molly.  She glanced up at him in shock, sending him a small smile.  She didn’t ask why he was here without a case.  He appreciated that.  She could probably tell just by looking at him, she was able to before.  He sat down on a stool and fiddled with the equipment, not looking at anything in particular.  His mind was too focused on something else at the moment to think about experiments.

“Troubles with John?”  Molly finally spoke up, having decided he had enough quiet.  She had moved behind him without him realizing it.  He turned, but didn’t speak.  She didn’t need an answer.

“You never talk.  That’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?  I talk all the time.”

“About yourself, about dead bodies, about how stupid people are, about experiments,” she was fidgeting, uncomfortable and not sure she could go on.  She took in a shuddering breath, “You never talk about how you feel until it’s too much and you… well, you explode in a matter of speaking.  You need to talk about it, relieve some of the pressure.  John likes talking about things, but you shut him down a lot.  Open up and he’ll open up.”

Sherlock glanced down at his hands, pretending he was holding his bow in them, back at his flat, ready to play another song on his violin while John listened.  He took a deep breath and got up, leaving without a word.

John was already at the flat.  He could tell without even opening the front door of the building.  He had walked back from the hospital, not even bothering to hail a cab again.  He decided he wanted to take in the air, even with the pollution.  He took the steps slowly, one at a time, trying to figure out what he was going to say.  In the end, he was painfully blank by the time he walked into the open doorway of his flat.

John was sitting with his back to him, but he was sitting in his chair, which was a little better.  The glare he sent over his shoulder, however, was anything but.  The Doctor and River (he wondered how they had managed to convince Lestrade to let her go) got up from the sofa and quietly slipped out the door.  Sherlock didn’t move until he heard them leave the building, but even then he didn’t speak as he settled down across from John.

“How many times have you lied to me, Sherlock?”  John spoke up, staring right at Sherlock, letting him know he wasn’t letting him escape this time.

“Many times.”  There was no point sugar coating it.

“But how many?”

“I’ve lost track.  Too many to count.”

“What am I to you, Sherlock?  You said I was your friend, yet you continue to lie to me and deceive me.  That’s not what friends do and I’m beginning to think that you don’t really view me in that way.”

“I jumped because-“

“Save it.  Save it,” he ran a hand over his face, “I already heard it the first time.  I don't want to hear your excuse again.”

So that’s what it was to John.  An excuse.

“I throw away my life to protect yours and that’s all that was?  An excuse?  I did what I had to to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting, Sherlock.  I’m a soldier.  I invaded –“

“Afghanistan.  Yes, I know.  But I doubt that would have stopped a bullet from going through your brain.”

They were quiet for a while until John started again, “Who else did you lie to me about?  You, Irene… is Moriarty still alive, too?”

“No.  He’s dead.  At least he’s not alive to my knowledge.  He shot himself in the head.”

“And you threw yourself off a building!”  John was getting exasperated now.  This could only end badly.  He was looming over John without any memory of getting up.  He settled his right knee on the chair and leaned over his friend, resting his cheek on the top of John’s head while his left hand curled possessively around the back of his neck.  He pulled John close.

“Please, John.  You can trust me,  I would never do anything to hurt you on purpose.  I always try to take the best route when you’re involved,” he tightened his hold, “I’m not a machine.”

There was a hand on his chest now, pushing him away and he reluctantly stepped back, watching as John stood, straightening his coat.  His eyes didn’t meet Sherlock’s.  He stepped away, toward the door, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist, pulling him back.

“This is only your second visit, and I can understand if you hate me.  But, please, promise me you’ll come back.  I don’t want my past to change, I don’t want my past few months to change.  Even if your visits have been brief, they’ve been the best part of the month for me.  I’m not sure where this visit places, though,” he was trying to joke and failing miserably at it.  That was John’s area of expertise, the dry wit.  John didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either.

“You’re hurting my wrist,” he finally whispered and Sherlock let him go as though he had been burned.

“I’m sorry,” the apology was out before his brain even formed the words.  John snorted and shook his head, back to moving toward the doorway.  He never gave Sherlock an answer to his question, never told him if he would return or not.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” it felt final.

Sherlock was back on heroin within the week.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade noticed this time, though, pulling Sherlock to the side at a crime scene.

“You’re back on it, aren’t you?”

“Don't bother asking questions to which you already know the answer.”

“I can’t have you here, then.  Not until you’re clean.”

“Ridiculous.  You’ll never solve this without-“

“I think we’ll manage without you.  We've done it before.”

Sherlock snorted, “Hardly.”

“Just go home okay.”

He turned to begging, “Don’t do this.  This is all I have left.”

“Well you should have thought of that before you decided to put a needle in your arm,” his eyes were kind, but his grasp on Sherlock’s arms was firm, absolute.  He wasn’t going to back down.  Sherlock’s gaze flickered out back to the body in the alleyway, sprawled out with rose petals spread around her.  When he looked back, Lestrade still had the same expression on.  He had no choice.  If he pursued to keep on this case, Lestrade would surely contact his brother about the heroin.  That is, if his brother didn’t already know.  He was just grateful he hadn’t been dragged off to rehab already.  His hands were clutching at each other nervously and he wrenched them apart, straightened out his back, and turned away.

He didn’t see Lestrade for months after that, though the man would text him every once in a while to ask him if he was clean.  Sherlock never dignified his texts with a response.  The detective knew what the silence meant, yet still didn’t ask.  It was weeks later that Sherlock woke up to find Mycroft sitting in the front room, ever-present umbrella tapping against his knee.  He glanced up at Sherlock, his face like a mask.  Leaning against him was Sherlock’s violin, no doubt held hostage so he wouldn’t start playing it to get his brother to leave.

“You’re using again,” his mask changed, this time sporting a frown.

"Oh, sod off."

Even Mycroft looked surprised as the words left Sherlock's mouth, but he quickly regained his composure.  He sent him one of his trademarked tight-lipped smiles that didn't reach his eyes, but showed his amusement and irritation all the same.

"Looks like Doctor Watson rubbed off on you a little more than I thought."

Sherlock turned to look out the window with a huff, pretending to be distracted with the traffic on the street.  The façade was lost on his brother, as always.  He heard Mycroft give a sigh, but didn't move to leave.

"Will I have to send you to rehab again?"

The question, though it should have been obvious it was coming, caught Sherlock off guard and for a second he didn't know how to respond.  After a second he decided to go the dramatic route as always.  He rolled up his sleeves and thrust his arms out toward his brother, showing off the creamy skin of his inner arm.

"As you can see, there are only a few new track marks, nothing to be alarmed about.  I have it perfectly under control."

He moved toward his bedroom door to signal the conversation was past over, but Mycroft was having none of it.

"So you say, Sherlock.  As you said all those years ago.  What happened then?  You used it as a way to stimulate your mind before, but now you use it as an escape.  Its purpose is to still stimulate yourself, however you no longer use it for crimes and questions.  You use it to think about everything and everyone but one Doctor John Watson."

He hated brother like one who hated a food they were allergic to.  You shied away from it, but it was always there anyway, taunting you.  It was infuriating.  He had, intact, taken up heroin again to keep his mind off the last visit from John.  But there was no way he was telling that to anyone.  He never would.

"The door's over there."

"I have all of your drug dealers monitored 24/7 now."

"What a great use of government officials.  What else are you making them do?  Running out and buying you pastries?  They’ve been busy by the looks of it.”

This time Mycroft sent him the smile he reserved for those who he wanted to smother in their sleep.  He had given the expression to John on multiple occasions.  Sherlock slipped into his bedroom and shut the door, waiting for the sound that his brother was leaving.  There was none.  The bloody git was going to wait for him to come back out.  Surely he had something of more importance to tend to, like the security and health of the country.  Instead, he’d rather focus on his brother’s.  Ludicrous.

Finally there were footsteps that came to his door, heavy and full of authority, “If I find that you have taken more since our visit, I will put you back into rehab,” his voice was powerful, showing that no argument would change his mind.  Sherlock said nothing in reply.  He didn’t need to, because no matter what either of them said would change anything.  He would continue to use it, and his brother would continue to issue threats until they were carried out and made men come and physically remove Sherlock from his flat.  The door closed behind his brother as he finally left and Sherlock was able to emerge from his room to pace the floor of his sitting room.  His memories hadn’t changed, so either John had decided to come back, or some strange time discrepancy had occurred.

No, not good.  He picked up his violin, plucking on the strings and running the bow over it, not interested in a tune.  Best not to think about John.  Experiments.  Those were better to think about.  He had still yet to determine the amount of time it took for a person’s head to decompose completely when kept in the oven.  He would open the device to check on the progress of the head more thoroughly, but that would bring in foreign elements that would change the conclusion and he could do without Mrs. Hudson complaining about the smell more than she already did.  If it was such a big deal, then she could go out and buy some air fresheners.  It truthfully wasn’t that bad, just made the air have an odd twinge to it.  Sherlock could handle it, had grown accustomed to it, even.  So why couldn’t she?  She wasn’t his housekeeper, after all.

She had told Sherlock on multiple occasions that she missed having John hanging around.  Kept him in check, she said.  Mostly meant he was harder to handle now that the shorter doctor had disappeared to run along through space and time at the side of an alien.  He swept the bow over the violin with a atrocious screech.  He wasn’t jealous.  He didn’t even know what it was like to be jealous, right?  He frowned.  His thoughts had come right back to John without meaning to.  How long had it been since his last heroin injection?  Around five hours.  He frowned deeper.  He needed more.  Swiftly, he marched back to his bedroom, rooting through his belongings to find his stash.

And hour later, he was sprawled over the couch, staring up at the ceiling and making out shapes and objects in the cracks and paint.  But his mind was clear of John.  He was wondering about the murder he had walked away from all those months ago.  The one with the rose petals.  He wondered if the Scotland Yard had figured it out.  He hadn’t bothered to be interested in whether they had or not.  He rolled off the bed, springing over to his laptop and booting it up quickly.  It took him a little less than half a minute to hack into the Yard’s files remotely and dig through them for the particular case.  It was solved, killed by her secret admirer.  Apparently if he couldn't have her, no one could.  Boring.   He closed the computer again with a click, slinking back to the couch.

Footsteps coming up the stairs.  Mrs. Hudson.  Second pair after hers.  Lestrade.  He didn’t want to talk to either of them.  He turned, facing the back of the couch and bringing his knees up to his chest.  They paused at his doorway, Mrs. Hudson knocking lightly on the doorway to let him know they were there and to check if he was asleep.  Of course he wasn’t asleep.  He had been walking about not minutes earlier.  They still walked in timidly, as though trying not to disturb him or rouse his anger.  He continued to glare at the couch as though it had brought personal harm upon him.

“Sherlock, dear?  Lestrade’s here with a case.”

He turned to look at them in record time, staring down the detective.  He looked worse for wear, dark circles under his eyes and his tie rumpled and crooked.  It looked like he had been running his hands though his hair repeatedly, as well, though Sherlock realized he probably looked just as bad, if not worse than the man.  But given the state of his appearance, it was a tough case, then.  Hopefully it would be a challenge for him.  It was usually a hit or miss, with how idiotic the Yard could be at times.  He often wondered just how they managed without him after his death.  Did they just run about like chickens with their heads cut off?  He knew with certainty that Anderson bumbled about on a daily basis.

“I’ll make you two some tea,” Mrs. Hudson turned to head to the kitchen.

“No, no.  It’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson.  I won’t be here long.”

Oh.  So he wasn’t going to give Sherlock the case after seeing just what kind of state he was in.  He turned to look at the couch again and he heard Lestrade sigh at him as Mrs. Hudson retracted back down the stairs to her flat.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock.  You’re like a bloody child who throws a tantrum when they can’t get what they want.”

“You don’t know what I want,” he retorted, sounding very much like a retaliating child.

“Yes, I do.  The whole Yard knows what you want.  As if it hasn’t been obvious from the beginning, Sherlock.  Look, I know you miss John, but you have to look at this from his perspective.  You betrayed his trust.  You took that step off St. Barts, while he watched, and left him.  He thought you were dead and he almost threw his life away, too.  When he found a place to hold onto, it was expected that he was going to hold onto it and not let go.  He’s happy and I’m sure he wants you to be happy as well.”

“Didn’t seem that way last I saw him.”

“That was his second visit, Sherlock.  Of course it wasn’t going to go over smoothly if he’s still hurt from finding out you were alive on his first visit, that you lied to him.  Pain like that just doesn’t go away like that.  You know that.”

“Still doesn’t excuse his actions.”

“Yes, it does.  Now stop being a child and get clean.  We need you.”

He gave a sniff, “Obviously not enough that you won’t take me as I am now.”

“Of course not.  I’m never going to be that desperate.  Just do it, please.  And give me a call when you do.  We have to get you back up to speed when you get back,” he walked to the open doorway, “I’m expecting that phone call, Sherlock,” Another voice that was full of authority.

“I prefer to text.”

“Fine, whatever you want.  I just need to hear from you again when you’re back to 100%.  Goodbye, Sherlock.”

The detective retreated down the stairs and Sherlock waited until he heard the front door close behind him before he leapt to his feet.  John.  John.  John.  That was the only thing his thoughts consisted of now.  Bastard.  He had been doing so well until that moment, but now his mind was stuck on that one man, like a broken record player.  He pulled out a clean needle and set up again, wrapping the latex band around his upper arm.  When the needle finally slid home, he was smiling.  It was nice to be away from earth.  He sunk down on the couch, lying on his back again to stare at the ceiling.  His eyes couldn't focus.  Of course he shouldn't have taken another dose so soon after the last one, he wasn’t stupid.  It just felt right.  Footstep on the stairs again.  Three pairs.  Lestrade was back along with a bounding footstep, like a rabbit given shoes, and a heavy- oh.  John.  Too late.

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”  John poked his head into the flat, immediately registering Sherlock lying down, splayed out on the sofa.  He frowned and the other men paused behind him, the Doctor craning to see in.

“He was awake when I left him, when I bumped into you outside, though he was a bit angry and your last visit didn’t go very well.”

“My last visit?”  But John was distracted, not really caring for an answer.

“Yes, it apparently was your second and you didn’t take it that-“

“Call an ambulance,” John was moving with the speed and proficiency of a doctor now, racing over to Sherlock’s side.

“What?  Why do-“ he spotted the band tied around Sherlock’s arm seconds later, his phone in his hands seconds after that, quickly dialing 999.  John hovered over Sherlock’s still form, running a hand over his face and down to his neck.  He could hear his fluttered breathing, but he still wanted to fell a pulse.  He found it quickly, though it was a slow beat.  He was just glad to feel it beneath his fingertips.  Lestrade was barking out orders and directions in the background, while the Doctor hovered over the foot of the sofa, zipping his sonic screwdriver over the man.  John looked at him expectantly for the results.  The Doctor tapped the device against his hand and it closed.

He gave John a reassuring smile, “He’ll be fine.  We got here in time.”

Lestrade hung up and rubbed the heels of his of his hands against his eyes, “The ambulance is on its way.  I just don’t get it, him.  I was literally in here ten minutes ago, talking to him.”

“Talking about what?”  John gently pushed Sherlock’s head up, easing himself under it so it would settle back on his lap.  He cradled Sherlock’s head in his hands, smoothing back his hair off his clammy forehead.

“A potential case he could have taken part in if he stopped using.  We also talked about you a little,” he grimaced as he said it, “I really shouldn’t have brought you up, but I had to.  He was past moping and sinking into self-hate.”

“I said some nasty things to him that I really shouldn’t have.  I took them back my third visit, but… he hasn’t had that visit yet.  I didn’t know= he didn’t mention this.  Probably didn’t want to make me worry,” he leans down to tap his forehead against Sherlock, curling himself protectively around the man, “I should have known, told him off somehow on my earlier visits.  Damn it.”

“Don’t blame yourself, John.  You didn’t know, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to say much, you shouldn’t change the future that much, you know that.  Preventing this would have changed the future a great deal,” the Doctor lay a comforting hand on John’s hunched shoulder.  It felt flat to John.  He knew he couldn’t forgive himself for this.  Sherlock’s lips and fingertips were turning blue, lack of oxygen with his short gasps.  John continued to run his fingers over Sherlock’s still face as though he could reanimate him with his hands, bring a little more color to his cheeks.  He was so pale, whiter than John had ever seen him.  It frightened him more than the drug coursing through his veins.  Sherlock was sick, dying and he was the reason why.  It sent chills through his body.

The wails of sirens pierced through the air as the ambulance drew closer to the flat and John straightened his back again, sitting like a soldier, his hands still, but fingers placed against Sherlock’s neck, feeling for his shallow pulse.  It was still there, fluttering beneath his neck, and he kept his hand there, finding comfort in the small beat.  Lestrade moved to let the medical team in and soon they were thundering up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson following after them in confusion.  The poor woman, always told everything last.  Her eyes fell on Sherlock still held by John and she let out a little cry, a hand coming to her mouth.  Lestrade moved quickly, ushering her into the kitchen.  The Doctor followed, ready to comfort her.

He gave up Sherlock to the medics, who pulled him onto the trolley to take him down the stairs to the awaiting ambulance.  John didn’t hesitate in following them, pulling out his medical license when they tried to stop him from climbing onboard to stay by the side of his unconscious friend.  He didn’t help much, mostly let the others do most of the work and tried to stay out of their way.  He didn’t want to hinder them in any way.  When they finally arrived and he was able to get out of the vehicle, rushing after the doctors, he let out a sigh of relief to be at a hospital.  Only to have the breath come rushing back in as he found himself looking up at St. Barts.  He hated this place, but, right now, this was what Sherlock needed.  It was ironic, really.  The place where Sherlock had “died” would be the place that saved his life.

Things were a rush after that, Sherlock taken away to some back room to be taken care of while John waited, siting in one of the unforgiving chairs out in the waiting room.  Lestrade and the Doctor showed up at one point, Mrs. Hudson left at home, but John didn’t notice, his eyes too focused on the clock ticking away on the wall.  He felt like he hadn’t taken a breath since he had stepped into the building.  He only let his lungs fill when a doctor approached him and he stood up quickly, walking forward to meet the man.  The Doctor and Lestrade followed closely behind him to hear the news.

“We’ve given him some Naloxone and his condition has stabilized.  You’re welcome to go back and see him, but he’s in a coma from the heroin overdose.  We’re lucky he didn’t experience any seizures.”

John nodded politely, pushing past the man to find Sherlock.  He found him quickly, his curly, black hair around his head like a dark halo, but his breathing seemed to be deeper now.  There was an IV in his hand, and now that John could just look at him, he looked impossibly skinny and as white as the clean sheets he was lying on.  Lestrade and the Doctor stood behind him, watching him expectantly, the latter sweeping his sonic screwdriver through the air again.

“I don’t know when he’ll wake up, but he’s definitely improved overall health-wise,” he slid his device away again in his inner pocket, “Would you like us to leave you alone?”

He nodded, finally moving toward the bed, his senses narrowing to just the man on the bed in front of him.  He pulled up a chair to the side of the bed, sitting down on the edge of it so he could lean against the bed, his head lying next to Sherlock’s side.  The IV was in the other hand, so he reached out slowly and clasped tightly to the one by him, tightening his hand around it as though if he didn’t, the man would slip away.  The beeping of the monitor was repetitive; the heart beat behind it back to control.  Sherlock’s breathing was back to being regular as well, and John soon found himself pulled into the rhythm, listening to his breathing and the beat of the Sherlock’s heart.  The stress of the day’s events finally came crashing down, leaving exhaustion in every bone of his body.  He soon found himself pulled under the lull of the Sherlock’s vitals.

The smell of coffee roused him and he blinked away, quickly snapping his head up and wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth.  His back was killing him and his hair was probably a mess, but his attention was caught with the man sitting across the bed from him.  He had an amused expression on his face, as always.  John glanced over at the small table by him, staring at the cup of coffee on it as though it was going to attack him.  It just wasn’t in the man’s usual activities to go out of his way to get coffee for someone else.  Or anyone, really.

“Mycroft,” John said curtly as a way of greeting.

“Doctor Watson,” he got in return, “Yes, the coffee is yours.  I got it the way you usually take it.”

John didn’t bother asking how he knew just how he liked his coffee.  He took up the drink and sipped on it, feeling the warm liquid run down his throat.  He hadn’t even realized how thirsty he was until the coffee had hit his tongue, but he couldn’t just chug down the scalding hot liquid, so he sipped on it slowly, enjoying the feeling and almost feeling the buzz of caffeine race through his system.  He wouldn’t need to sleep again for a while, that was for sure.

“You’re lucky I got here just in time.  They were going to throw you out, but I managed to persuaded them otherwise.  You’re the closest thing he’s got to family besides me, after all.  I added you to the visitor list for him.  At least it’s a bit longer now, I suppose.  Always could use a few more names besides Lestrade and myself.”

John just hummed into his coffee, not really seeing the point of where Mycroft was trying to go with this.  If he was expecting a thank you for his actions, he had better be comfortable in that chair of his.

“What do you want?”

“Is looking after and caring for my brother not enough to let me be here?  Do I need more reasons, Doctor Watson?”

“No, what’s with the coffee.  You wouldn’t bring me a drink, or anyone that matter, under any normal circumstance,” he pulled the cup away from his lips and made a face, “This isn’t drugged, is it?”

“Oh, please.  I’m nowhere near Sherlock’s level,” he leaned forward, “But, you are correct, I do want something.  I want something from you.”

“Uh ha?”

Mycroft’s eyes darted to John’s hand that wasn’t holding the coffee and he realized belatedly that he was still grasping tightly to Sherlock’s hand.  He would have pulled away in the past, but this time he kept his grip on the man, sending Mycroft a look that dared the man to say anything against it.

“Now I know you care very deeply about my-“

“Stop right there.  I’ve already heard this speech,” John groaned rolling his eyes, “You really shouldn’t worry about me this time around.  Save your words, and voice, for a later time for when it will actually be applicable.  Now’s not a good time.”

Mycroft tapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair and sent John a chilling smile, “And how long are you staying for this little visit of yours?”

John looked at Sherlock, then back at Mycroft, “Honestly?  Not long,” Mycroft looked surprised, his eyebrow arched, “I don’t like seeing him like this and I don’t know how long I will be able to keep my wits about me staying here.  I suppose I’ll stay for a few days, but I don’t think I could handle more at the moment,” he frowned, “I don't like seeing Sherlock so weak and broken when I know him as a man of opposites, full of life and stronger than any man I have ever met.  He is the most human person I have ever met.  And I don’t want to remember him otherwise.”

“I can understand that.  You are free to stay here as long as you can.  I’ll make sure he gets the best care, whether you are here for him or not.  I’ll leave you two alone again,” he got to his feet, reaching down to pick up his ever-present umbrella.  His feet clacked out of the room and left John alone again.

He wasn’t sure if Lestrade or the Doctor had come back, though Lestrade most likely had work to do, especially if he had come to Sherlock to see if he was well enough to work on a case.  The Doctor was probably waltzing around the city, leaving confusion in his wake.  He was a brilliant man, like Sherlock, but sometimes it was as if his mind was elsewhere, up in the clouds, while Sherlock’s just remained in his head, blind to all else.  He took the last sip of coffee, gave Sherlock’s still hand one more squeeze, and withdrew.  It was time to distract himself.

* * *

 

Saying that Lestrade was surprised to see him in his office was a bit of an understatement.  The man was completely shocked, almost spilling his own coffee when he looked up to address whoever it was that walked through his door, only to find John and the Doctor striding in.  John smiled at the reaction, feeling a bit like Sherlock at the moment.

“John, what are you doing here?  I would have thought you would stay at the hospital with Sherlock.”

John ignored that, instead getting to the point of why he was there, “I was wondering if the Doctor and I could look over the case you were going to bring to Sherlock.  If you still need help, that is.”

“Yes, the case is still unsolved, but-“ he stopped looking between the two of them before letting out a sigh of defeat, “Ah, fuck it.  Here you go,” he unearthed the certain folder, sliding it across his desk.  John picked it up, letting it fall open.  The two men moved to the corner of the room to peer over the contents of the folder and whisper amongst each other while Lestrade watched them out of the corner of his eye, trying to focus on the other work he had to complete before the end of the day.  There were short knocks on the door before it creaked open and Sally stuck her head in, words lost on her tongue when she saw John and the Doctor.

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” she smirked, “Where’s the freak?”

John looked over at Lestrade and he gave a small shake of his head.  He hadn’t told anyone what had happened, he was still the only one at the station who knew that he had started taking heroin again.  John looked a bit relieved at this, tension leaving his body.

“He had more important matters to tend to,” he replied, closing the folder with a snap, “Plus, he would have found this case boring anyway.”

“What do you mean?”  Lestrade asked.

“The maid did it,” was all he said in return, setting the folder down and pushing past Sally.  The Doctor bade them both goodbye with a smile and a wave that more resembled the flapping of a fish before he left, too.  Lestrade sat, frozen for a moment, until he reached over and grabbed the folder, intent on dissecting it to see whatever it was they had.  Sally seemed to have forgotten what she originally came for, her attention now focused solely on John and the door fell closed with a click as she ran after him.  As he sat still, glaring at the evidence written down, the door slowly opened again and he looked up to find just John coming back in slowly.  The atmosphere in the room changed immediately.

“Yes, John?”

John looked worried, sad, broken, his eyes downcast, “Greg, there’s something I want you to tell Sherlock when he wakes up,“ he looked up to meet the man’s eyes.

“Whatever you want me to, John.”

* * *

 

When Sherlock did slide back into consciousness, John was gone, his chair pushed back from where he had pulled it from.  He had been gone for some time, too.  Sherlock had next to no recollection of how he had come to be lying in a hospital bed, an IV in his arm, and staring up at the boring white ceiling.  The nurses were quite happy to see him awake.  Until he started telling them their every detail that what he could see on them.  Then they tended to avoid his room until they absolutely needed to administer him some more medicine.

The withdrawal was hell, as it always was, his body screaming in pain, wracked with shudders, and the intense need for more.  But under the ever watching eye of Mycroft, he never got anything more, from the hospital or otherwise.  He wouldn’t have, anyway.  No point to it, really.  But he did wonder why he was alive.  He was pretty sure that he had slid that needle home, knowing full well that that would probably be the last thing he did.  He remembered Lestrade visiting him, but nothing more, just bits and pieces and it infuriated him.  Had the man saved him, called an ambulance?

But he had to wait for the inspector to actually visit before he could ask him all that he wanted to know.  He didn’t bother sending a word Mycroft’s way whenever the brother came into his room, content to let him stand there in uncomfortable silence until he left in relief.  He knew his brother was disappointed in him, but at the moment, he couldn’t bother to give a damn and his brother was too proud to say it out loud.  So as soon as Lestrade stepped foot in Sherlock’s hospital room, he pinned the man down with his customary stare and the man could only squirm beneath it.

“Why’d you save me?”  Was the first thing he asked.

“I didn’t.  You would have been dead if I hadn’t come back up.”

“Why’d you come back up?”  Sherlock hated to be the one asking questions, but it had to be done.

“Because I ran into John and the Doctor outside your building.  They were coming to see you.”

Sherlock’s hands tightening on the bed’s sheets.  Ah, yes, the footsteps.  He remembered them now.

“Visit?”

“His seventh,” Lestrade looked as though he hoped that would cheer Sherlock up a bit, but it only seemed to do the opposite, his body deflating as he lay back down, sinking into the mattress.  A deep frown etched itself into his face.

“His seventh, huh?  I wonder when it will be his 100th.  Maybe I’ll be an old man by then.  He’ll probably still be young.  Time travel and all that.”

“Don’t be like that, Sherlock.  He’s not going to stay away forever.  You know that.”

“Do I?  I don’t see anything that says otherwise to the matter.  Where is he now if he cares about me that much?”

“He’s not here because he cares about you.”

“Stupid.”

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head, “You have to understand how hard it was for him to walk into that flat, with you lying on the sofa like that.  He thought you were dead.  Again.  He kept pressing his fingers against your neck, desperate to feel the pulse there even though he could hear your shallow breathing.  He told me to tell you something before he left, something important.”

“Well, then, spit it out,” he crossed his arms and pouted.

“Such a child,” Lestrade rolled his eyes, but continued, “He told me to tell you that it gets better.  It may still be painful, but it gets better.  He promised me that it would and I don’t think he would lie or break that kind of promise.”

Sherlock stayed quiet and the inspector silently took his leave.  He had said what he had been told to, but Sherlock still looked skeptical, hands crossed in front of his chest, a frown on his face that seemed to be directed at the world as a whole.  It would take time, he knew, but if what John had said was true, then it would, indeed, get better for the man.  It was silent now that all the visitors had left, the only noise coming from the bustling of the medical teams outside in the hallways.  Alone, Sherlock sat, mulling over the words Lestrade had given him.  John’s words.  If they were completely true, then he felt as if a knife had been sliced though his stomach, gutting him.  He had done it again.  He had “killed” himself in front of the man he cared more about than he had anyone else.  It was really a wonder how he would ever forgive him this time.

But would it get better, would it really get better?  What did it mean, to get better?  Sherlock hadn’t the faintest as to how it would get better.  It all seemed quite hopeless to him.  This seventh visit was the latest one he had received from John and he hadn’t received the eight yet.  If he ever did.  It wouldn’t surprise him if he only got John for the remainder of the visits he had not gotten yet before the man disappeared from this time line, never to return, off to better things, more adventurous times.  He could feel his thought falling into a rut, always about one thing or another now.  He knew he couldn’t turn to drugs this time around to get him out of them.  He knew better for once.  Not to mention, Mycroft would undoubtedly erase him from London completely if he did, ship him off to some rehab center for help.  He remembered the last one, completely dull.  He didn’t want a repeat of that.

So no more drugs.  He knew, to a degree, that he thought that if he stopped, John would magically appear, a smile on his face, back to following his every move.  But he knew it didn’t happen like that.  He knew he had blown his chance and, if he hadn’t, he would have to try extremely hard to get John back on his good side on his next visit.  Maybe he would look back on it and remember it, realize where it was in the timeline and figure out what it was Sherlock wanted him to know.  Because he wouldn’t actually say it.  He could never say that.  Sherlock Holmes was a proud, stubborn man and there was no way in hell he would ever tell John Watson just how much he needed him.  Maybe.  He grimaced.  It was a tossup.  On one hand, he would feel raw doing such a thing, but on the other hand, he knew that John was a person controlled by emotion.  Really, he would do what it took to get him back and if that meant opening up, then he would do it.  It didn’t mean that he would look forward to it, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to write sex into this chapter, but I decided to keep it until a later chapter.

There was an explosion in the distance, closer this time, and John struggled more against his bindings, trying to loosen them, but they give no slack.  In a last attempt, he threw his whole body against them, but, again, he doesn’t feel any give.  He’s hopelessly tied down with no place to go and the ship quickly dissolving around him, blown apart by some trigger-happy alien.  And of course the Doctor is nowhere to be seen, having gotten separated from him a while back after he got distracted by something while John had his back turned.  Soon after, he had gotten himself abducted and tied upright to a pole in the middle of an intersection of hallways.  At this rate, he was going to be consumed by fire.

The entire place was shaking with each explosion, tremors running through the floor and pole, making his teeth clatter as he grit them tightly.  Dust was leaking down from the ceiling as cracks appeared in the material and rained down on him.  The explosions were coming closer, approaching from both sides and speeding up by the sound of things.  Even the floor was starting to crack now under the vibrations.  He gave one last futile pull to try to escape before slumping against the pole, defeated.  He could try screaming for the doctor again, but his throat was raw and hurt.  He rolled his head back and shut his eyes.

“Sherlock.”

* * *

 

Sherlock was composing.  Which, in itself, wasn’t a good sign, but the room around him looked as though a tornado had swept through, about five times messier than it usually was.  He heard Mrs. Hudson tut at him and the mess from the doorway, but didn’t turn to address her, going back to running his bow over the strings.  She puttered around the room, trying to put things back in order, though it was a lost cause and she gave up after a few minutes, letting the papers flutter back down to the ground and moving to the kitchen to put on the kettle.  She always did that, whether or not Sherlock actually wanted a cup of tea, and then set the drink out to cool, untouched on the table in the sitting room.

He was just starting to start over the tune to listen to it, figure out where he needed to change the notes when the door downstairs slammed open.  Mrs. Hudson jumped in the kitchen, mumbling to herself about who it could be, as only Sherlock came in with that much noise.  Feet pounded up the stairs and there stood an exhausted John in the doorway, leaning against the frame to regain his breath.  Sherlock’s piece screeched to a stop and he held his violin and bow limply by his side.  John looked him up and down, possibly trying to figure out if this was Sherlock’s first visit.  The doctor looked a little worse for wear, his jumper singed and ash covering most of his body except his face.  His usual blonde hair was grey now, concealed beneath a fine layer of ash.

“Fifth,” Sherlock finally found himself saying and John relaxed, limping over to the couch and collapsing on it.  Mrs. Hudson peeked out at the two of them before deciding it would be best to leave them be, returning to her duties at the kettle just as it began to let out a high pitched whistle.  She made the tea as John and Sherlock remained silent, John on the couch and Sherlock remaining by the window, violin hanging from his hand.  Finally he broke from his stupor, moving to place the violin on the mantle piece.  Mrs. Hudson bumbled through with the tea, giving them a small smile as she set the tray down on the table before quickly making her exit, back to the safety of her own flat.

Sherlock moved tentatively forward, “What number visit?”

John glanced up at him, looking exhausted, “Third.”

Immediately Sherlock moved a step back, eyes cast down at the floor, “You’re welcome to use the bath and most of your clothes are still upstairs to change into.”

John got up, shakily, and walked through the kitchen, disappeared from sight to use the bathroom by Sherlock’s rom without another word.  The sound of the shower quickly gushed though the pipes and Sherlock collapsed onto his chair, his eyes still fixed in the direction John had disappeared in.  John’s bathrobe was still in the bathroom as far as he could remember.  He hadn’t wanted to move it out.  He frowned at the sentimentality and picked up his tea, sipping at the liquid.  It was still warm for once, while John’s tea was the one that was cooling.

When the shower shut off, Sherlock was done with his tea, curling up on his armchair, fingers drumming against the leathers.  When John emerged, wet hair slicked back and wearing his robe, Sherlock averted his eyes until the man disappeared upstairs, then his eyes were back, staring at the doorway John would come though next, just waiting.  When John did trod back down the stairs, Sherlock looked at his toes, wiggling on the leather.  John slid into his own seat with a sigh of relief, tilting his head back and running his hands down his face.  He looked tired, older.

“Why did you come back?”  Sherlock finally asked.

“Did you not want me to?”

“You just didn’t seem so keen on seeing me ever again the last time we met.”

“Circumstances changed.”

“Would it have something to do with why you were covered in ash when you arrived?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re scared.”

“And I think you’re bored.  When was the last time you had a case?”

“Months now.”

John glanced at him sharply, his eyes wide in shock, “And how are you not crawling up the walls and harpooning pigs right now?”

“I’ve been preoccupied with other things, thoughts.  Why did you want to know?”

“Something to do while I’m here instead of both of us sitting awkwardly in a room, not talking about what happened during my last visit.  So, case?”

Sherlock’s fingers were already racing over the keyboard of his phone, sending a text to Lestrade to demand a case from him that very instant.  He just hoped the man was near his phone and would reply soon or else he’d have to go back to playing his violin to pass the time and fill the silence stretching between them.  His phone rang and he silently cursed the inspector out for calling him instead of just sending back a quick text.  He pushed the answer button as though it had personally offended him and moved away from John’s listening ears until he was far enough away he was certain Lestrade’s voice wouldn't be heard.

“I though you didn’t want to be on a case for a while,” Lestrade started with.

“Circumstances changed,” he shot back, glancing over at John as he repeated his words from earlier.  John stared right back, but Sherlock could see a hint of confusion in his eyes at Sherlock’s actions.

“What the hell kind of- oh,” so the man wasn’t that stupid.  Sherlock was glad for that, “What number visit is it?”

“Third.”

It was silent for a while before he asked, “Have you told him about-“

“Of course I haven’t!”  Sherlock snapped, “Now do you have a case for me or not.  If you don’t, I may just go out and make my own-“ he stopped as heard movement behind him, John moving over to him.

“Yeah, yeah.  We’ve got one.  A thief.  Usually that’s not our division, but their last heist didn’t go as they planned and now we have a body.  They leave clues at each of spots about where they’re going to strike next.”

“And you’ve been doing such a great job at deciphering the clues.  I’ll be there in twenty,” he turned the phone off before Lestrade could protest or say anything else.  He turned to see John standing practically behind him, arms crossed and a frown on his face.

“You lost your composure.  What was that for.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why can’t-“

“Because it would change the future.  I can’t tell you extensive details about past visits, now can I?  You only gave me vague descriptions yourself on your fifth visit.  Lestrade’s got a case for us, you ready to go?”

“Of course, but you might want to get changed,” John pointed at Sherlock and he looked down at his pajamas and dressing gown.  He turned and quickly headed into his room and seconds later there was the clattering of clothes being thrown about the room.  When he came back out, he was wearing what looked like more expensive clothes than normal, smoothing his hands down the sleeves.  John quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as Sherlock threw on his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck.  Together, they walked down the stairs to hail a cab to what hopefully wouldn’t be a boring investigation.

* * *

 

“What’s with the clothes?”  Of course that would be the first thing Lestrade noticed that was different concerning Sherlock, “They look like they would cost me two limbs instead of just one.”

“Everything else was dirty, now give us the case file so I can get started and maybe clean up your mess.”

Lestrade sighed, but picked up the file, handing it over.  His gaze flickered over to John, who was hovering behind Sherlock.  He sent a hesitant smile to the man and John sent him one back that was a bit more genuine, his eyebrow raised in curiosity for Lestrade’s uncertainty.  Lestrade spared a glance at Sherlock, who was lost in the case already and figured he should probably do what he did, which was say nothing about what had happened.  Of course, now he needed to think up an excuse if John asked him why Sherlock hadn’t taken on a case in months.  He sat back down, busying himself with own work.

Finally, Sherlock turned, thrusting the file out to John who took it without question, “Tell me what you see,” Sherlock’s smile was small, but his voice was needy.  He wanted John to look at it, tell him what he could find out from the papers, just like old time.  John wet his lips and flipped though the notes until he was at the first note left at the scene of the crime.

“They stole from a regular, neighborhood house first, leaving a note that no one thought was important at first, dismissing it as something left in victory, someone on their first theft.  But it was quite the opposite, theft is a game to thems,” here his eyes darted up to receive some confirmation from Sherlock, who merely nodded him on, “The note makes several points to ancient Egyptians and the next day a 5,000 year old artifact goes missing from the history museum.  An Egyptian necklace.”

He flips to the next hit, “The next note, it talks about the Wizard of Oz,” he trails off, confused for a moment, before his face lights up, “Oh, the ruby slippers!  And then the largest ruby in England is stolen the next night.”

Sherlock’s smiling down at him, pride on his face as John works through the notes one by one until he arrives at the current one.  He muses over it a bit, trying to figure out what it’s referring to, his bottom lip pulled into his mouth.  Sherlock waits expectantly for John to speak and when the silence stretches on for a bit too long for his taste, he reached out, pointing at a line in the note.

John tilted his head, “It’s sounds like something a cowboy would say.  This whole thing is as if some out of date US westerner wrote it.”

“That’s what we don’t understand it.  The others made allusions to things, included everyday knowledge, but this one has changed.  We’re not sure if it was because he was panicking because of the body or if it’s just getting too confident now and decided to step up his game,” Greg gave his input, the rest of his work completely forgotten.  This was more interesting, after all.

“Neither,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I still wonder how you manage on a day to day basis here.  Anderson’s bad enough on his own,” he turned on John again, “Now what do you associate with cowboys?”

“I don’t know… horses?  Railroads?  Guns?”  Lestrade nearly missed the small smile that tugged at Sherlock’s mouth, but John caught right onto it, confidence now back full swing, “So, guns?  What?  Some big gun collector around here?”

That sparked something in Lestrade’s mind and he leaned forward to use his computer to search, but Sherlock beat him to the punch, as per usual, “Bernard Williams, London’s most eclectic gun collector.  The thief will hit there tonight.”

“It’s almost seven already,” Lestrade glanced at his watch, “We better get going.”

“We?  I was hoping to-“

“Come on, Sherlock.  Why not?  Just like old times?”

Sherlock melted like butter under John’s gaze and he seemed to nod in agreement before he even knew what his body was doing.  Lestrade threw on his coat, holstering his gun, and got everything into order.

“You sure about this Sherlock?”

“It’s the only explanation,” he said back, looking down at Lestrade.

“All right, just don’t do anything stupid, you two.”

Like they ever listened to what Lestrade said.  And that was how they found themselves on a high-speed chase on foot through the back streets of the city in the night, the police already forgotten behind them.  Lestrade had told them to get back here as they two took off, already sliding into his police car, but by then Sherlock and John had disappeared from sight, pure excitement rushing through their veins as they pursued the thief.  They could see his coat flaring out behind him the first few corners, but once they arrived at a split with no coat in sight, they split up, racing in their different directions, wondering who had picked the correct way to go.

As it turned out, John was the lucky one.  Or maybe not so lucky, as he rounded the corner and found himself at a dead end.  The thief was at the end, staring up at a fire escape when they heard John come up behind them.  They turned, their face obscured by shadows and pulled a firearm out of their waistband.  John was already moving, diving for cover by the time the first shots rang out.  They fired in quick, rapid-fire succession, the bullets ricocheting.  From that alone John could tell this man wasn’t experienced with a gun.  Then there was silence as the man tried to reload the gun.  John took this as his chance to dive back out, heading straight toward the man.  There was a click as it was reloaded, swung back up to point at him, but the man was too late, John was too close.  He managed to get off one shot before John tackled him to the ground.

The man’s head connected with the ground with a sickening crack and he immediately stilled.  John’s fingers nudged at his neck to find a pulse, relief rushing though him when he found it.  He was just unconscious from the blow, not dead.  John stood up off him, backing up into the wall and sliding down to rest against it.  The adrenaline was still rushing though his body and he could just hear someone yelling his name in the distance with his acute hearing.  It was Sherlock yelling for him, trying to find him.  His voice was getting nearer and it wasn’t until John was certain he would be able to hear him, did he reply.  Then Sherlock was there in all his glory, rushing around the corner.  He was scared, his eyes wide in horror at what he expected to see, and instead of rushing to the thief’s side, he rushed to John’s crouching down in front of him, fingers fluttering over him.

“I’m fine,” John pushed away the hands, but they came back with renewed vigor, moving John’s right arm out of the way.  Sherlock’s finger pressed into his side and instantly pain lanced through John’s body.  He let out a hiss, trying to arch away from the touch, but his arm was still held captive in Sherlock’s grip.  He wrenched the hand on his side away and peered down, the right side of his jumper quickly turning red.  He didn’t feel shot, but then again, he hadn’t been able to feel much through the adrenaline.  His fingers felt tenderly around the wound and he let out a breath of relief as he realized he had only been grazed by a bullet, not shot.  Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, hand still wrapped tightly around John’s wrist.

“I’m all right, it merely grazed me,” he told Sherlock, but he remained worried, his grip tightening.

“I thought I’d lost you again,” was all Sherlock offered, leaning in a bit toward John until his forehead pressed against the smaller man’s.  They sat there for a while, just soaking in each other’s presence, their eyes never moving from the other’s.

“I’m right here,” John whispered, twisting his wrist out of Sherlock’s grasp, but he didn’t pull away, his hand brushing over the back of Sherlock’s.  His fingers found the gaps between Sherlock’s and twining between them, tying the together.  He gave a squeeze and the smallest of smiles appeared on Sherlock’s face, his body relaxing.  His gaze flickered down, caught on John’s lips and he tilted forward more, lips- there was the screeching of tyres and slamming of car doors.  The pulled apart almost as through they had been shocked, but their hands stayed tied together.  Lestrade raced around the corner, gun drawn.  He relaxed when he saw the culprit on the ground and Sherlock and John to the side.  He holstered his gun and kneeled down to press his fingers to the man’s neck.  Upon finding a pulse, he clanked over at Sherlock and John, whose joined hands were hidden.

“You o-“ he saw the blood and immediately was on guard, “Jesus, were you shot?  We need to get you an ambulance.”

He reached into his pocket, but John waved his free hand, “I’m fine, really.  No need, it only grazed me.  I’ll just head back home and patch up.  I have all the materials I need there.”

Sherlock’s heart soared when John said that Baker Street was his home again, but dropped like a stone when he remembered this was only his third visit.  It wasn’t really John’s home, he didn’t truly think of it that way.  Just said it out of instinct.  His hold on John’s hand slackened and then dropped.  Sherlock stood and John looked up at him in confusion.  Holding out a hand in front of John, Sherlock waited for him to grasp it so he could pull him up.  John did and Sherlock pulled him onto unsteady feet, the shorter man leaning heavily against him, but he didn’t mind.  Lestrade still looked wary, hand in his pocket, most likely fisted around his phone, every instinct of his yelling at him to call an ambulance.  More police walked around the corner, on guard until they saw everything was in order.

“Sally, cuff him,” Lestrade yelled to Donovan when she came around the corner.  She gave a disgusted side-glance at Sherlock and John as she moved to the thief.  As she turned him, he groaned starting to stir.  Lestrade moved quickly to pick up the discarded gun from the ground, putting it into an evidence bag.

“Now, Sherlock, John, we’re going to have to question you for-“ he turned to watch the coat of Sherlock’s flare out as the two of the darted around the corner, “I guess we’ll be getting their statements later, then.”

Sherlock and John moved quickly until John’s side stung too much and they had to stop, leaning up against a brick wall.  John tilted his head back and looked up at the stars, a smile on his face.  Sherlock’s arm was pressed against his as they stood side by side, both of their heads tilted back to look up at the starry sky.

“Pluto’s not a planet anymore,” Sherlock suddenly said and John turned his head to find the man was looking down at him now, eyes wide like a puppy trying to please his master.  John couldn’t help himself, he laughed until his body shook and he heard Sherlock’s deep rumble of a laugh join in.  The two stood there together, laughing like little children.  John did it without a thought, really.  One second they were both laughing and the next John’s fingers were tugging at Sherlock’s scarf, pulling him even closer until their lips brushed against one another.  He paused, then, wondering if this was truly how Sherlock felt or if what had happened earlier had just been a mistake.  But his doubts were soon dashed away when Sherlock leaned in again, mouth falling perfectly over John’s.  It was a soft kiss, full of emotion, and as their lips slid over each other’s they found words unsaid in the touches.

One of John’s hands was still fisted in the blue scarf, while the other held tight to Sherlock’s coat.  Sherlock’s hands moved, one to cup his cheek and deepen the kiss, and the other to wrap around his body, pushing at the small of his back to move them even closer to one another.  They were completely lost in one another and the kiss that they almost forgot the fact that John was wounded.  Sherlock’s arm brushed against it lightly and John let out a his, jerking away from the kiss from pain.  Sherlock immediately retracted his hands as though he had burned the man with his touch or done something horrible.  He looked as if he had, body curled over and much too small for the man.  John reassured him with a peck to the corner of his mouth, a smile on his lips.

“Lets get back and get this taken care of,” John said, pulling away reluctantly, “Then we can do whatever it is we want to.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly and trotted after the doctor as they made their way to a main street to finally hail down a cab.

* * *

 

After much swearing, water, and alcohol, John was closed back up, Sherlock having done all the work while John directed him.  The man had been a fast learner, but, then again, when had he never not been?  He was leaning back against the man’s chest now, both of them reclining on the sofa, alcohol making his head spin.  They had used some to disinfect the wound, but after a while John just took to drinking it instead as Sherlock had weaved a needle through his skin to sew the wound closed.  Now, he was on the brink of being drunk, but not quite there, his mind still clear enough.  He was perfectly content to just lean back against Sherlock and feel the man’s heartbeat in his back, move with every breath he took, just remember that he was alive.  That they were both alive.  He tipped his head back, humming contentedly when he fell into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, tucked up against him as though he belonged in the man’s arms.

“I almost died,” he finally spoke softly and he felt Sherlock stiffen, “I almost died on my latest adventure with the Doctor.  That’s why I wanted to come back for another visit.  I couldn’t stand the thought that I would die while you were still alive.  That my last words to you could have been so heartless and cruel, almost like last time.  I just couldn’t bear that thought, of you still being alive, expecting me to come back, never knowing that I was dead.  It would have been as if I had betrayed you.”

His face was pinched as though he was in pain, his eyes closed now as he spoke to Sherlock, so he didn’t see the look of complete sadness and pain on the man’s face as he looked down at the man pressed up to his chest.  Sherlock pulled him closer, head bending down to burrow his face into the man’s exposed neck, arms holding him tight.  He felt like a failure of a person at that moment.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled into the man’s neck and John opened his eyes in shock.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock.  I forgive you.  For jumping off that hospital.  I know you saw that as the only way, the only alternative to make sure we were both still alive in the end, even if it hurt for the both of us.  I forgive you,” his hands reached up to press reassuringly against Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock only shook his head, “Not that.  Not that.”

John moved away, turning to ease Sherlock’s head back up and capture his lips with his own.  It was a soft one again, nothing too fast for both of them.  Just the slow slide of lips, full of emotions as they pressed, needy against the other.  Sherlock’s hands slid down, cupping John’s arse as he pulled him close and then he was standing up.  John’s limbs immediately wrapped around the taller man, arms around his neck and legs around his waist as he was lifted up, their mouths never separating.  Like that, they stumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom, almost tripping over several things in their way.  Sherlock lay John down gently, still wary of his wound and fully enveloped the man in his body, their warmth pressed against each other as he hovered over the man, their mouths and tongues still the most intimate action they could manage at the moment.

John’s shirt had been removed, but Sherlock was still infuriatingly fully clothed, his coat and scarf the only thing he had removed, his sleeves merely rolled up.  Still kissing, John moved his hands down Sherlock’s chest, coming to a stop at the top of his trousers and pulling at the shirt, untucking it in front.  He moved his hands around Sherlock and worked on it there, successfully pulling his shirt out.  His hands were slow and methodical on the buttons, opening the shirt up button by button, but finally it was parted and he could run his fingers down the expanse of white skin over him.  Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth as his fingers danced down the flesh, lightly running over his nipples.

Finally, he had to pull away to get a full breath of air, his head spinning from alcohol and lack of oxygen.  The skin over him wasn’t smooth and perfect, as he thought it would be and he quickly flipped them so he was straddling the man, looking down at his exposed chest.  The white skin was broken and marred with scars and old wounds and John let his hands run lightly down the flesh, feeling every imperfection under his fingertips.  If anything, it made him love the man even more.  He leaned down and kissed one scar by his collarbone.

“How’d you get this scar?”  He whispered into the skin.

“Knife fight at a bar in Santiago.”

“You got into a knife fight?  At a bar?”  John chuckled, trying to imagine Sherlock in a situation like that.

“As they say, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“How about this one?”  He traced the jagged scar over the man’s right hipbone with his tongue.

“Stabbed in a back alley in Venice.”

John traced his fingers over another scar below his ribs, this one almost like a brother to his own, “Who shot you?”

“One of Moriarty’s followers.  It was a lucky shot, he wasn’t important.”

“A little too lucky,” he kissed the scar softly before nuzzling his nose into the scar tissue.  He tilted his head up, resting his chin on Sherlock’s stomach and looking up at the man, who was looking down at him, his blue eyes piercing though the darkness of the room like a blade, “I want you to tell me the story behind every scar, every wound.”

He got up on all four and crawled up the bed, pushing his face in the curve of Sherlock’s neck and splaying his right hand across the man’s chest.

“Then you’ll have to tell me your story afterward,” Sherlock kissed the top of his head and turned to the two were facing each other, his long arms winding around John, spindly fingers massaging over his back.  He left a burning kiss on John’s forward, took a deep breath, and began to tell his tale.

John practically melted into Sherlock’s voice as he described what had happened to him those years after the fall, what he had gone through, and how many he had killed.  He didn’t talk once, didn’t want to interrupt the man, because he knew if he did, Sherlock might stop talking.  So he waited, lost in his baritone.  He almost didn’t notice when the man had stopped talking, having nothing else to say, back to his return to London.  Sherlock held him tighter.

“When I heard you had disappeared, that some man had taken you, I was worried I hadn’t done the job correctly and missed someone.  I thought you were dead and all I had done had been for naught.  I searched for you, did all I could, but I never found a lead and Lestrade and Mycroft kept dragging me back to London for cases and I eventually just stayed here because I had nothing to go on.  I felt like a complete failure.”

John snuggled closer, “I’ll be sure to tell the Doctor that he gave Sherlock Holmes the fright of his life.  I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that.”

He was glad to hear the soft chuckle that Sherlock made.  He had been worried for a second that his usual transition to humor would not have been welcomed at that moment.  This moment was a rare one.  Only rarely did Sherlock open up to him and actually let him see what he had been feeling inside, but right now, in that bed they shared together, Sherlock was like an open book to him, trusting him with his whole life.  And John trusted the man right back with his own.

“It’s your turn, John,” lips brushed over the shorter man’s forehead, “I told you my story, now you tell me yours.

* * *

 

All he could feel was heat, baring down on him and he relaxed against the hold and slumped against the pole, waiting for death he couldn’t escape from.  He was such a failure, to the Doctor and to Sherlock.  He had let them all down.  The sounds seemed to dim, time grew longer, the fire grew warmer and just when he though he was going to die, another noise broke through the fire and explosions.  A whirring, cranking noise that made relief rush through his body and his knees gave out.  There was nothing but the noise of the TARDIS now and there was nothing holding him up anymore as he slumped to the ground, head bowed, eyes still closed.

“Welcome back, John!  That was a close one, wasn’t it?”

John didn’t respond, finally letting his eyes open just a bit, staring at the metal floor of the TARDIS, the whirring just a background noise now.

“John?”  The Doctor was closer now, hovering over him, “You’re not hurt, are you?”

He shook his head weakly, brining up his arm to wipe away at his face, only to stare at the dusty sleeve of his jumper and realize that would just make him messier.  The Doctor placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly and then the man was fluttering off again, back to the controls of his machine, turning and twisting the knobs and mechanics.  The noises picked up again and the whole place shook.  John threw his arms out to brace himself against the floor.  There was a shudder as the TARDIS landed and grew quiet.  The Doctor was back, picking John up off the floor and moving him toward the front door.  Another adventure already?  John wasn’t sure his body could handle it at the moment.

He was about to protest when the front doors swung open and he found himself in London.  Well, to be more precise, he found himself in a back alleyway somewhere in London, but the sounds and smell were undeniable.  John straightened and looked at the Doctor, who grinned widely at him.  It seemed that he knew exactly what John needed at that moment most of all.  He took a shaky step out of the police box, the Doctor staying behind in the open doorway.

“I’ll stay here for a few days, so come back if you want to continue our travels,” he called out after John and he turned to look at the alien, “Of course, if you don’t, that’s fine, too,” the man’s smile faltered a bit, but stayed on his face, “But, please, do enjoy yourself and your time with Sherlock.”

“Thanks, Doctor,” he realized belatedly that his left hand was shaking and he clenched it into a fist, moving out of the alleyway and making his way home.

* * *

 

It was silent in the room and had been for a few minutes, their mixed breathing the only sound.  Sherlock had just begun to wonder if John had drifted off when the man stirred, pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

“I’m going to go back to him, you know,” he murmured into Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock’s heart constricted, “I know, but why?”

“I’m not ready to come back yet, I’m just not… ready.  I can’t explain it, I just-“

“I get it, aliens are more interesting than consulting detectives.”

“Not like that, Sherlock.  I don’t see him that way, he’s just a friend.”

“And me?  What am I to you?”

“My best friend who I would very much like to shag someday, so I suppose that makes us lovers or boyfriends if you’ll have me in that way,” he exhaled though his nose, the warm air dancing over Sherlock’s chest and making his skin prickle.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just held him tight, lips pressed against John’s temple.  Finally, with their bodies pressed up against one another, their limbs entwined, they fell asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing.

When Sherlock woke the next morning, his arms were empty and the bed was cold.  He rolled up, his hair bushing out around his head and spotted a note left on his nightstand.  He unfolded it with long, hesitant fingers, and stared at John’s familiar handwriting.

_I’ll be back, I promise.  Someday I’ll be back permanently.  Until then, keep asking what visit it is and when we can, maybe we can go a step further than kissing.  –JW_

Sherlock tried to smile, but found he couldn’t, tucking away the note for a rainy day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I have been in a writing slump for a while. But, thanks to my Tumblr followers, I think I may have managed to climb out of it. I just hope I don't fall back in later. So, anyway, prepare for angst.  
> I may have gone a little overboard with the Utah stuff, but I live here and get a little excited when my favorite TV shows mention it.  
> Someday Sam and Dean will come to Utah for an episode. Someday.

"You’ve become even more like a sulking child lately," Mycroft said, tapping his cane against the side of the chair.  John's chair, Sherlock noted with a scowl.  "You've also started taking less cases again despite John returning now and again.  Do you think he'll ever decide to stay?"

"Sod off," Sherlock growled, turning on the sofa so his back was to his brother, "I'm sure there's some country you need to go to war against."

At last he heard Mycroft rise to his feet and move to leave, but not before pausing at the door and clearing his throat, expecting Sherlock to look at him one last time.  Sherlock didn’t grant him that luxury.  If he wanted to be angry and his brother and sulk, he would do so for as long as he wanted to.

“Expect to hear from me soon with something I need you to do out of country.”

“I’m not leaving England,” Sherlock spit out.

“What’s keeping you here?  You really have no choice in the matter, dear brother.  Now good day.”

Finally, he left.  Sherlock didn’t move until he heard the front door close behind his brother and he though for a second that the should have thrown in a snide comment about his weight while he had had the chance.  He hoped he got snowed on a bit despite his umbrella and the fact his ride was but five feet away.  He stood up and wrapped his dressing gown tighter around his thin body before walking to the window, staring down at his brother as one of his workers opened the back door to a black car for him.  Mycroft tilted his umbrella back and glanced up at him, he had knew Sherlock was going to be there, and smirked.  Sherlock grimaced in return and backed away from the window, making his way to the kitchen.  He wasn’t hungry, but he could do with some tea.

He set the kettle on to boil and fiddled around with his experiments as he waited for it to begin whistling.  He tried to delete his brother’s words while he was at it, but his comment about John stuck to him as if it was glued in place.  He frowned.  That wouldn’t do.  Immediately he tried to plaster other things over them in hopes they would cover the words and move them to the back bit by bit.

The kettle was whistling now and he moved swiftly to take it off the heat, pulling out his cup and tea.  It took him a while to make it, for whatever reason.  It always seemed as though John had been able to prepare it in- no.  Moving his mind to other things, he took the first sip of his tea.  It was scalding hot, so he blew on it a bit and tried again.  He let the liquid run down his throat and he stood for a while before walking to the sink and pouring the rest of the cup’s contents down the sink.  It didn’t taste like John’s tea.

* * *

 

Mycroft had been true to his word and he found himself grabbed and thrown into a waiting black car days later.  He just wished he had still been in nothing but a sheet, just to see his brother’s expression as he was tossed into the car in front of him.  Unfortunately, he had been wearing jeans and a dress shirt for once, wondering if he should go pester Lestrade for a case or to go to St. Bart’s and demand some body parts from Molly.  In the end, Mycroft had made it so he couldn’t do either.

“By ‘expect to hear from me’” Sherlock huffed, clambering into a seat, “I didn’t expect a kidnapping, Mycroft.”

“Well how else was I supposed to get you to come?  You’re going to Utah for the weekend now.”

“Utah isn’t really most interesting of places right now.  Or ever, really.”

“I’ve noticed that, but there’s a case there I think you’ll enjoy,” Mycroft smirked, handing over a file, which Sherlock reluctantly took, but didn’t open it, “The papers in there tell you what this case of yours entail.  It’s up to you to interpret them as you wish, but, for God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t make it so dramatic like you usual like it.  I wouldn’t want my little brother stoned to death because of his pompous attitude.”

“You’re one to talk brother.  Tell me, have you made the bakery down the street from where you work go out of business yet?  You have to have, given the weight you’ve gained over the past few months.”

“Your petty insults do nothing to me, Sherlock, and I’ve heard them all before.  Learn some new ones before you try again.”

Sherlock frowned and looked out the window and they fell into thankful silence until they got to the airport and even then it was just some more curt information thrown at him by Mycroft.

“We’ve already sent clothes and everything else you’ll be needing to the hotel you’re staying at.  It will be waiting for you in your room.  Your return flight is in a week at noon.  Don’t miss it.”

Sherlock grimaced, imagined being stuck in America of all places, and got out of the car without a word in return, file still tucked under his arm.  The crowd soon engulfed him and he was pulled into the building without even a glance back.  He opened the file and pulled out his passport and plane tickets sitting inside, making his way over to security, breezing right to the fast lane and moving through quickly and without troubles.  He knew that would start on the plane, when he would be bored out of his mind, harassing the flight attendants and insulting the fellow passengers in first class.  He stopped in front of a store.  Maybe it would be best if he bought a magazine.  Or ten.

* * *

 

By the time the aeroplane finally landed, Sherlock was practically crawling out of his skin, having paced along the inside of the aircraft for the most of the trip.  The employees had tried to stop him at first, but he just hissed a few deductions their way and they let the other passengers know that he had to do it to calm his nerves, though none of them had been quite happy with that outcome.  He threw himself out the open door as soon as they allowed him and walked into the airport, striding through the crowds toward the exit.  He had nothing but his file with him, having left the boring magazines behind on his seat.  As he was passing through the large crowds leaving, he saw a man holding up a sign with his name on it.  He paused, wondering whether to ignore him or not, but decided against it.  He didn’t even know where he was staying.  Besides, the man was staring at him.  He already knew what Sherlock looked like.  So he sighed and walked over.

The man was quiet, which Sherlock was grateful.  At least his brother had had the courtesy to not hire a chatty driver for his brother.  For that he would get one less weight remark, but that was it.  The driver stopped outside a hotel finally and Sherlock climbed out, not bothering to give the man any money.  It wasn’t as if he had any American money on him to give the man, anyway.  He got the keys to his room quickly and shut himself away in it.  A suitcase was at the foot of the bed and he picked it up to search through it.  In it were the normal clothes he usually wore, no disguises and he felt a bit happy about this.  He had skimmed the contents of the file while on the airplane, but figured it was probably best he didn’t have it out in the open for too long in case it held confidential information.

He pushed his suitcase to the side and sat down, laying the file out on his lap and opening it to rifle through the papers, he read them one after the other, letting the words on the paper sink into his brain.  Until he got to the last page.  Then he deleted them all immediately, a frown on his face as he read the last line once more in confusion.  ‘Please disregard all before this, as this is nothing but a vacation.  Use your time wisely.  Go check out the Temple tomorrow night.  I hear the Christmas lights they put up are beautiful.  Don’t bother trying to return until your next scheduled flight.’

Sherlock growled, knowing if he tried to book a seat on his own, his brother would stop it.  Why Utah, out of all the places, though?  There had to have been somewhere better to send him off to besides this godforsaken place.  And then there was the specific request, to go to the Temple. Perhaps there was something there for him to see, the real purpose of the reason he was sent to Salt Lake City, Utah.  He hoped so, or he would be beating his brother with his own umbrella.  In fact, he may do that anyway just out of spite for the older man.

He stood, pacing the room, wondering whether he would ignore his brother’s words or go with them.  There had to be a reason for them, Mycroft never was one for wasted words.  He sat back down with a defeated sigh.  He would go, but only for a short while.  If he didn’t see anything there that was worthy of his time after five or ten minutes, he would leave and try to book a seat on a plane anyway.  He had ways of getting around Mycroft’s system and he wouldn’t hesitate in worming through the holes in his system.  There was nothing else to do in this city, so he sat down on his bed with a growl and waited.

He ended up leaving early the next morning, the room he was in was extremely boring and he had already deduced everything he wanted to about the people that were in the same hallway as him.  This city was dull, the people were dull, even the buildings were dull.  He moved with no purpose, wandering past everyone and everything with hardly a glance.  He was happy to find a small German Deli next to a theatre.  He wandered in and sat down next to a stand of mostly candy and let himself relax as he listed to the workers and a few of the customers converse in German.  It felt a bit more like home than the streets outside.

The workers were beginning to side eye him, so he got up with a sigh and excited the place.  If he had had American cash, he would have even gone so far as to pay for some food there just to stay a while longer.  It was getting later now, the days shorter, and the sun was already dipping low in the sky.  He hitched up the collar of his coat and tightened his scarf as he walked down the street, heading toward the crosswalk, having decided to cross to the middle of the street and take the light rail up to the Temple.  He was in the free zone, so he figured he might as well take it while he could and see what he could find about the people inside.  The one that came first was filled to the brim with people and he let it pass.  The next was a different line from the previous, but it still went to the same place and less people were on board.  He quickly pressed the button and slid in through the open doors.

He chose to stand, though there were really no available seats except those by someone already, and no one seemed to be willing to take those anyway.  The light rail lurched around the corner and when the doors opened, everything seemed to spill out onto the sidewalk, all heading toward the same place.  He let the others push past him and he got off in a calm manner, following the crowd to the crosswalk to get to the Temple.  It loomed over him now, the entire grounds of the place lit up by cheerful Christmas lights.  Sherlock didn’t quite know what the lights had to be cheerful about.  He looked around at all the happy couples and moved fast, moving back toward the exit when he heard a familiar voice.

“Did you know I was here in 2012 in a secret underground museum of sorts?  I’ve been to Utah several times actually,” Sherlock turned to see the Doctor and John standing off a ways in the crowd, but his ears only picked up their voices, nothing else mattered.  The Doctor scrunched up his face, “You know, Utah hasn’t exactly been the friendliest of places I’ve been to.  I’ve died here, too.  Temporarily, of course.  It was all a set-up, but I had to lie to my friends to do it.  No other choice, really.  I felt horrible, but I had to.  You understand right?”

Sherlock waited on baited breath for John’s reply, who seemed to be taking his time, staring at the lights before his head turned to look up at the Doctor, who was looking at him expectantly.

“Not really, no.  Seems like an arse move to me.”

Sherlock’s heart sank to his stomach and he was about to turn when the two did before him.  John stuttered to a stop, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s and the detective cringed under the gaze.  This was John’s first visit.  He had seen this anger and hurt in his eyes before, on John’s second visit, but never to this level of animosity.  Once again he found himself fleeing the immediate area and moving back toward where he had entered.  He could hear the Doctor yelling behind him, asking John what he was doing.  Damn Mycroft.  He must have known John was in town otherwise he wouldn’t have asked Sherlock to go to this particular place.  He was infuriating beyond relief and Sherlock decided the next time he saw him, he would snap the man’s umbrella in half over his very head.

He crossed over to the station to wait for the next light rail and he could see John staring him down in his peripheral vision, the Doctor looking completely confused.  But at least John was willing to be civil.  If only when there were other people around.  Sherlock had no doubt that John would follow him all the way to his hotel room if he had to.  And he would feel the need to do so.   The light rail ride consisted of John attempting to drill holes through the back of Sherlock’s skull with just his eyes and Sherlock quickly got off at the stop he had gotten on to begin with, racing up the sidewalk, across the street, then down the sidewalk, past the German deli.  He was half hoping he could find someway to lose the two, maybe disappear inside the theater, but there would be too much security and this visit seemed inevitable.

“Sherlock!”  Oh, John was angrier now, probably from having to chase Sherlock down in a foreign city.  Why was he in this city of all places anyway?  Sherlock ducked down a side alleyway next to the theatre and stopped, taking a breath and shutting his eyes.  He waited until he heard the two behind him before he turned to face the man.  John was glaring at him, body shaking, fists clenched in barely contained anger.  Sherlock tilted his face to the side, inviting John to take a swing.  John took it.  His fist connected with Sherlock’s cheekbone and Sherlock reeled backward, hand already flying up to inspect the damage.  He should have known John wouldn’t be done then, despite him only saying that he punched Sherlock.  He tackled Sherlock to the ground and he felt his head hit the pavement and for a moment he saw stars, followed by blackness.

He blinked it away and saw John hovering over him, concern creeping in the corners of his eyes, though anger was mostly what was still there.  His hand had been raised to punch Sherlock again, but was slowly unclenching.  His doctor instincts seemed to be kicking in as he gingerly lifted Sherlock’s head to inspect the back of it, making sure there wasn’t any horrible damage.

“I don't think you got a concussion, maybe just a bump and why am I taking care of you!”  He stood up with a pout, stubborn to the end.  John like.  Sherlock would have smirked, but he knew John was aching to punch him again.  They stood over him and he let his eyes travel from one to the other.  John had folded his arms against his chest and Sherlock couldn’t practically see his mind scrambling to try and figure out what to make of the man on the ground in front of him.

“May I get off the ground now, John?  Doctor?  We seem to be drawing a crowd.”

It wasn’t a lie.  A few pedestrians had stopped to stare down the alleyway at them, trying to see what they were doing.  The Doctor quickly held out a hand and Sherlock reached up, grabbing it.  The Doctor was a lot stronger than he looked, easily lifting the lanky detective back to his feet.  Sherlock brushed off all the dirt that was clinging to his coat and shoved his hands back into pockets.  It was starting to snow, an off year for this city, as there was almost no snow on the ground.  Usually the city was blanketed in white.

“You know me?”  The Doctor asked, looking like a child on Christmas morning at the prospect.

“This is the sixth time I have seen John since he left to travel with you.  Our visits, Doctor, have been few and far between,” satisfied with the condition of his coat now, he glanced over at John.  He was glaring at Sherlock so intensely it was if he hoped the man would suddenly be set ablaze.  “Shall we continue this conversation elsewhere?  Inside, perhaps?  My hotel is a block down from the next light rail stop.  We could take it…”

He trailed off when John said nothing, just continued to level him with his glare.  So he did what he did best.  He took authority, dragging a now protesting John after him, back to the main sidewalk and pulled him all the way back to the light rail stop.  By the time they got there, John was no longer resisting, but was showing just how angry he was by glaring at anyone that came within five feet of them.  They waited in awkward silence for one to arrive and once it did, they sat across from each other, Sherlock choosing to stare at his feet instead of looking around, or up at John.  The stop came quickly and the walk after that seemed to stretch out for centuries, the silence only broken when they finally stepped into Sherlock’s hotel room.

“Of course you would have a room in a place like this,” John muttered, looking around the large room, “What are you even doing here, anyway?”

“Mycroft.”  Apparently that name wasn’t enough for John, who was still keeping his distance, so Sherlock continued, “He decided that I needed a vacation and told me that there was something he needed me to do here.  Apparently, that thing was to run into you.  I was only at the Temple because he suggested it.”

“And since when do you do what Mycroft suggests?”

Sherlock grinned, but the smile quickly wavered, “A mistake on my part, I assure you, but it was bound to happen eventually anyway.  You told me the first time you saw me, you punched me.”  His hand rose to his bruising cheek and his gaze, “And that was today.”  He sighed and looked down, “I just wish we could have met on better circumstances, though I don’t know what those would be in this case.  I would have gotten punched wherever we were.”

“Of course you would have.  I’m tempted to do it again,” John growled, refusing to sit down on one of the chair, while the Doctor had moved off to the far side of the room, running his device over random objects in an attempt to make it look as though he wasn’t listening to their conversation.  Sherlock sat down on the edge of his bed, facing the desk in hope that John would get the message and sit down.  He didn’t like it when John looked ready to leave at any second.  He hadn’t even been able to explain himself yet.

“Look just sit down so we can talk, okay?”

“Fine but I’m not telling you anything, you’re the one telling the story here.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, gesturing toward the chair.  John pulled it out and turned it toward Sherlock so he could sit facing him, arms still crossed in front of his chest.  The Doctor had disappeared somewhere in the bathroom.  It was quiet in the room and Sherlock found himself fiddling with the buttons on his coat until finally he decided it would be best to just shed it.

“Why’d you do it?”

Sherlock glanced up at him, halfway out of his coat, “Because I had to,” He eased it off his other arm and threw it to the side, “I needed my death to be believable or you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would have been shot.  With Moriarty dead, it was the only way out.  I didn’t know the codes to stop the assassin’s.  So I took the leap.  I had multiple scenarios in my head of how my confrontation with Moriarty would end, and me dying was one of them, so I planned accordingly.  I only told Molly because she had to declare me dead.  My homeless network did the rest of the work.”

“Molly knew?”  John was gritting his teeth, hands clenched in fists.

“Yes, I approached her.  She knows me a lot better than I gave her credit.  She even could see things about myself I couldn’t.  I never gave her the credit she deserved.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”  He looked ready to punch Sherlock again.

“Because you still had a bullet with your name on it.  I had to stay away, in the shadows.  If Sebastian, the assassin they had trained on you, knew I was alive, he would have killed the three of you.  So I had to stay hidden.”

“And you couldn’t have just brought me with you?  Do you even trust me or was that all a lie?”

“I trust you, John.  I trust you with everything, with my life.  I would die again for you, John.  But you have to understand.  I was on a one way street, nowhere else to go but where I was already headed and I had to leave you behind at the start.  If you suddenly disappeared after my death, Sebastian would have put it all together.  He was smart, I’ll give him that.  He would have killed Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and then he would know we were coming after him.  He would be a step ahead of us.  I only barely managed to kill him as it was.  I spent three years searching for him, ripping down other strands of Moriarty’s web on my way.  But I finally did it.  His web is no more and it’s safe again, John.  It's safe again for you and that’s all I wanted.”

He found that he had stood up sometime during his rant, hands gripping tightly to his curly hair as he paced the floor in front of John.  The older man had sat in silence during it all and Sherlock had liked it at the time, but now it was disconcerting.  He stared up at the detective with a blank expression.  Sherlock couldn’t get a reading out of it.

“Say something, John.  Anything.”  Sherlock pleaded.

“Okay,” He stood up and turned toward the bathroom, “Doctor, we’re leaving!”

The Doctor opened the door and poked his head out, “Already?  You haven’t even talked to the man, John.”

“Yes, already.”

He was moving toward the door and Sherlock darted in front of him., trying to stop him, “John, please.”

“Move.”

“John, I’m sorry.  I’m truly sorry.”

John slipped past him and opened the door.  The Doctor darted by, shooting a sympathetic look at Sherlock as he tried to catch up to his companion.  They were almost back to the elevator when Sherlock ran after John, catching him right as he was stepping on.  He gripped onto the cuff of John’s coat and when the older man whirled to glare at him, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the hideous carpet.

“I’m sorry, John.  I’m lost without my blogger.”

He didn’t look up at John, didn’t have to as the man tugged his sleeve back and slipped into the elevator.  Sherlock didn’t look up again until the doors slid closed and then John was gone with a beep as the machine began to descend.  He stood in front of the elevator for a while, scaring quite a few people getting off on his floor.  Finally, he slunk back to his room, collapsing on his bed.  His whole body felt numb and he didn’t register that his phone was ringing until it chirped to let him know he had a voicemail.  He picked it up, hoping for one moment that it one John, either the one he had just met or a future one.  Mycroft.  He nearly threw the phone at the window.  He quickly deleted the voicemail and opened up his texts.

**I’m coming back tomorrow and you can’t stop me. - SH**

He turned off his phone after that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, but I hit massive writer's block thanks to school, but now I think I have my mojo or whatever back again.
> 
> And then I wrote a lot for this chapter, almost 6,000 words. I don't know where it came from, but I'm not going to argue.
> 
> Anyway... sexual content is in this chapter. Just saying.

He doesn’t see John again for a month and he briefly wondered if he had done something to change the timeline, if Mycroft’s meddling had ruined everything.  But he knew that wasn’t the case, the meeting had played out as it always would.  He had gotten punched, John had left, and now he waited.  He had yet to have John’s sixth visit and he was looking forward to the progress of their… relationship.  He never thought he could feel this way about a person.  It was almost frightening and he spent his time after the last visit preoccupying his mind with cases and experiments.

It was the downtime between the cases that were the worst, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t appreciate that he seemed to almost burn the flat down weekly with his experiments.  She should know better by now that he had more control than that.  The worst he did was singe the counter a bit, nothing bad.  So when he came back from a case, this one only about a 5, but he was desperate and this one had ended in an exciting chase, and found John scrubbing at the counter with a frown on his face, Sherlock almost tripped over his own feet in surprise.  He stared at the man for a while before John let out a huff of annoyance and glowered up at him.

“I’m sure Mrs. Hudson appreciates the mess you’re making of this kitchen,” but he couldn’t keep the hint of amusement out of his voice.  Sherlock smirked and moved forward, removing his scarf and coat, throwing them over the back of the nearest chair.  He was on John before the man could process it, cupping the doctor’s face and bringing it up to his, and kissing John on the lips without hesitation.  He felt John tense beneath him and withdrew to look at the man.

“What-“ John was out of breath, “What was that?  Well, I know what it was, but what if we hadn’t done that yet-“

“I’ve had your first, second, and third visit, John, so I know that it was okay to take that course of action upon seeing you once more.  Unless, of course, this is a much later visit and you’ve decided not to pursue this any further.”  He looked down at his hands, clasped tight in front of his stomach.

“No, no.  Of course not.  Never.”  John leaned up to leave a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and pulled back with a soft smile, “So you actually want to do this?  Have a relationship?”  John seemed incredulous, his eyes wide, and Sherlock didn’t feel much different from him.  He had never known just how much he could want a person in his life until he had met John.  He pulled the man into a hug and tilted his head down, nuzzling his face into John’s neck.

“Yes, I think I do,” he could feel his warm breath against John’s pulse and he listened to the beat of the man’s heart, relishing in the glow of John, his conductor of light.  “This is your sixth visit, isn’t it?”

John pulled away to look up at him, “Yes, it is, but how-“ he smiled and Sherlock bathed in it, “You know, I’m not even going to ask.”

“Then I’ll just have to explain.”

“Not until we’re sitting, then,” John pushed Sherlock backward until the taller man complied, letting John shove him back into the sitting room, where he collapsed onto the sofa, barely leaving room for John.  John scoffed at him, slapping him lightly on the forehead  to get Sherlock to raise his upper body up, letting John slide under him.  He settled back down, using John’s lap as a pillow.

“My first visit was your fifth.  That was the only time anyone has truly been able to confuse me as much as you had.”  He saw John smile and couldn’t help but grin as well, “My second visit was your fourth,” he wrinkled his nose, “and we had that dreadfully boring case, where you had to go get yourself kidnapped.  Why’d you go and do that?”

John let out a laugh, “So you’d come and rescue me.”

“Oh, you were hardly a prince in need of his knight in shining armor.”

“But I got one anyway,” he leaned down to meet Sherlock in a kiss and Sherlock couldn’t stop the smile that spread on his face.

He pulled away to continue rattling off the visits, “Third visit was your second.  You were cruel to me, though I suppose I shouldn't have expected it to be any other way.  You’re dreadfully human at times,” John smiled, “My fourth- well, that was your seventh.  I’m sorry for what happens on that visit.”  John looked down at him, concern in his eyes, but didn’t push it, for which Sherlock was grateful.  “Of course, my fifth was your third and you know what happened then.  Then there was my sixth visit over in America.  And now you’re here for my seventh visit.  So, the only visit I hadn’t gotten is your sixth, unless it’s a later one, but I don’t want to think of that being a possibility.”

“I’ll come back eventually, you know that, right?”  He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, brushing the hair out of his way.

“No, I don’t know that.  It’s the only important thing I don’t know and I don’t like it,” Sherlock pouted, not making eye contact, instead turning his body away.  John frowned and ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair, deciding to change the topic.

“So you just had my first visit, huh?  I’m sorry about that.  But trust me when I say that I didn’t say everything I wanted to that time and know I’m glad for that.  I was going to say some really hurtful things to you, and only stopped myself because the Doctor was there.”

Sherlock looked back up at John, “Like what?  What were you going to say to me?”

“Do you really want me to say it?”

“Yes, please.”

John tipped his head back and let out a dry laugh, pausing for a bit, still staring at the ceiling before finally blurting out. “I was going to tell you that the Doctor has more heart than you ever will.”  He looked back down.  Sherlock was quiet, his face unreadable.  “And, look, what I mean by that now is-“

“No, it’s fine.  You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you were angry with me.  Of course you would say things like that, such as when you called me a machine before the fall.”

“Look, I’m sorry about-“

Sherlock sat up, cutting John off again, “No, it’s fine.  I’m going to see if Lestrade has another case we can go on.”  He stood up and walked over to his phone, quickly sending a text of to the police officer.

John sighed and let it go for now, deciding to let the man simmer down a bit before he tried to talk reason with him.  “All right, but only take a case that actually interests you this time.  I want to see you show off, and I don’t fancy being kidnapped again.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” was the only response John got, Sherlock’s back to him.  He got up with a sigh and slid his arms around Sherlock from behind, a backwards hug.  The taller man relaxed in his arms after a while, but didn’t turn.  His phone beeped and Sherlock gave a small sound of anger at the message.

“No case?”  John asked, already knowing the answer.

“No case.  It seems the one I just returned from was the most interesting one he had.  And even that one was boring.”

“Then I guess we have to stay here?  Together?”  John smirked, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s spine.  He said nothing in return this time, staying quiet for a while until he slowly turned to face John, the shorter man’s arms still around him.  “Hopefully I can be more interesting than any case.”

Sherlock grinned, finally, and put his arms over John’s shoulders.  “Seeing as how you continue to confuse me even to this day, I think you’ll have no trouble with that.”  He leaned down and kissed John’s left ear before whispering, “And I’ve always wanted to know if your scar tastes different from the rest of your body.”

John’s knees almost gave out at the low growl that came out of Sherlock’s throat, his grip tightening on the man.  “Then I guess we better get to your bedroom, then.”

“Yes, it seems so.”  Sherlock practically lifted up John, trying to get him into the bedroom as quickly as he could, kissing the man all over the face.  Once the door was shut behind them, though, he was the one who collapsed on the bed, waiting for John to crawl over him.  John did so, slowly and taking his time.  He ran his hands up Sherlock’s shirt, feeling the lean muscles beneath the fabric.  His fingers dusted up the man’s neck, following his jawline back to his ears before tangling into Sherlock’s hair.  He bent down and kissed him, starting slow and sweet, Sherlock awkwardly trying to keep up with even this, his mind whirling with information, too much information.

John pulled back, cupping Sherlock’s face, looking him right in the eye, “Stop thinking so much, Sherlock, and just feet.  You don’t need to be thinking about this.”

“But I want it to be perfect, to make it perfect.”  Sherlock protested.

John leaned back down and murmured against his lips, “It already is perfect because it’s you.”

Sherlock practically melted under John’s lips, finally setting his mind loose.  It was terrifying at first, but the comforting weight of John over him brought him back and he felt elated.  He reached up to run his hands up John’s chest the same way he had done to him before, but it was harder with the thicker material of the jump.  He pulled it up a bit, putting his hand against John’s skin on his stomach.  John shuddered back with a yelp and for a second Sherlock thought he had done something awful, hands back at his side and ready to wiggle out from under John and call it a day, but then the shorter man laughed.

“Your hands are really cold.”  There were callused fingers against Sherlock’s now, making it harder for John to keep his balance.  John pulled away to sit up, fingers rubbing over Sherlock hands to try and make them warm.  Sherlock looked up at John, at his shiny lips, redder now, his crooked jumper.  And his hair, god.  It didn’t even have one strand out of place and it pissed Sherlock off.  He reached up and pulled the shorter man down for another kiss, getting an undignified squeak out of John.  His hands stayed in John’s hair, tangling themselves in it and pushing it this way and that.  There was a smile against his lips and he knew John figured it out when there were suddenly fingers in his hair as well, pulling at the curls.

John pulled back and Sherlock practically whined at the loss until he saw that the shorter man was merely pulling off his jumper.  He held it out for a second before he dropped it on the ground and Sherlock wiggled under him in anticipation, his attention held by John’s scar.  He would have been lying if he said he had never wanted to study that scar, to taste it, and touch it.  He wanted to see every reaction he could get out of John, besides pain of course, when he put his attention on that scar.  John bent back down, kissing him softly and Sherlock had to smile at the sincerity of it.  He ran his fingers lightly along John’s sides and felt him shiver at the soft, almost tickling sensation.

He pulled his right hand up closer and finally reached up, lightly tracing his fingers over John’s scar.  The man didn’t register it at first, probably too light of a touch, but then Sherlock pressed his fingers more solidly against it as he let his hand trace over it once more, mapping it out.  Then John gave a small gasp, lips releasing Sherlock’s so he could tilt his head and look at Sherlock’s hand, still running over his scar.  He looked back up at Sherlock and gave him a soft grin, pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s once more.

“No one’s ever paid attention to that,” he murmured as he continued to softly kiss Sherlock, “Too ugly, I think.”

“Well, then they’re idiots,” Sherlock said, his voice monotone.  John giggled into the kiss and had to pull back to look down at him.

“Idiots?”

“Yes, idiots.  It’s…well, I daresay it’s beautiful.  But that just may be me.  I like scars, especially ones like yours.  They show that the person cheated death and still live to tell the tale.  They’re not boring.”

“You just like death, don’t you?”

“…Maybe.”

John laughed again, the deep, genuine laugh that shook his whole body and Sherlock felt absolutely elated that he was the reason John was making that noise.  He smiled up at him and John smiled back down, his crow’s feet standing out, crinkling around his eyes.  Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and kissed them on each side of his face.  John pushed him back down and held onto both sides of Sherlock’s face as he started up the kissing again, tilting his head just right to send tingles down Sherlock’s spine at every joining of their lips.

“What was that for?”  He asked between kisses.

“Hmm?”  Sherlock hummed.

“Kissing my face.  What was that for?”

“Your crow’s feet.  I wanted to kiss them.”

“You wanted to-“ he pulled back, “Why my wrinkles?  I hate that I’m getting old.”

“You’re not getting old.”

“Yes I am.  I’m older than you.”

“Does that mean I should respect you since you’re my elder?”

John laughed again, “Yeah, like that will happen.”

“They show you laugh a lot.”

“What?”

“That’s why I kissed them.  I like it when you laugh, especially when I cause it.”

John looked down at him softly, “Then maybe you should make me get more wrinkles instead of making my hair turn greyer faster.”  He brought their lips together and Sherlock let out a small chuckle, followed by a content sigh.  John was working at his buttons now, slowly revealing skin until he was completely done, tugging at the shirt to untuck it as much as he could without leaving Sherlock’s mouth behind.  It wasn’t going well.  To help, Sherlock arched up into John, letting the man work his hands behind him and untucked the back.  He felt John smile against him and knew he had done something good before he had to be told to.  He was learning in this new situation.

But, eventually, John had to pull away, Sherlock making a small whine at the absence, but was soon moving his body, raising his arms to make it easier for John so slide the shirt off of him.  It was soon thrown onto the floor to join John’s jumper and Sherlock decided to keep it to himself that that certain shirt cost more than what John made in a week.  It didn’t matter, though.  John was the most valuable thing in his flat at the moment, after all.  When John finally left Sherlock’s mouth alone, now red and swollen from all the attention, and started on his neck, Sherlock couldn’t stop the groan that left him at the new stimulation.  John kissed and sucked his way down Sherlock’s neck, then along his collar bone and shoulder before he went toward his chest.

He looked up at Sherlock then, chin resting against the man’s sternum, “I hope you’re taking notes, Sherlock, because I want you to do this to me next time.”

Next time.

Sherlock moaned and rocked up into John.  Yes, of course.  Of course he would to this to John next time.  He just couldn't believe it was happening to him now, but he stored what was happening to his body to use for later when it would be needed.  John was scraping his teeth over his nipples now and it sent a shock though him that made his entire body jerk at the stimulation.  John chuckled and moved to do the same to Sherlock’s other nipple, getting a less severe reaction out of him this time.  He reached down, gripping onto John’s short hair, trying to pull him away. Luckily, John knew what he wanted and abandoned them, moving farther down.

“Was that too much?”  He heard John say down near his belly button and he nodded weakly, knowing John was watching him.  He was always watching him, making sure he was okay.  John was more gentle with his stomach, hands working at Sherlock’s belt while his mouth ghosted over Sherlock’s stomach, almost ticklish.  He picked up his hips when he felt his trousers unzip, allowing John to slide them off his hips, then down his legs before it joined the other articles of clothing on the floor.  His socks were ripped off as well, John’s nails tickling the soles of his feet.  Then John was back over him, staring down at him with his soft, blue eyes.  He felt naked underneath John, who was still in his jeans while Sherlock was just in his pants.  John kissed him again, softly, and all the anxiety          fluttered away, leaving him boneless beneath is lover.

John sat back, reaching for his belt, then stop, blinking as he remembered.  He clambered off Sherlock, “Just a sec.  Need to go get supplies.”  Sherlock opened his mouth, but couldn’t get anything out as he watched John go.  He heard the man go upstairs – of course his ‘supplies’ would be up there – and rested back against his pillow, hands on his stomach as he waited.  It was quite cold now without John over him and he felt his body give a small shiver.  Then he heard John’s feet leaping back down the stairs and he was back in Sherlock’s room in seconds, supplies in hand.  He set them down on the bedside table and climbed back onto the bed, straddling Sherlock once more.  Sherlock looked over at what he had brought and saw it was a bottle of lube and a box of condoms.  He smiled.  Ever careful John.

He looked back just in time to see the man wiggle partially out of his jeans.  Sherlock laughed and sat up, taking pity on the man and helping him remove them, socks following right after.  Still sitting up, John moved forward until he was sitting on Sherlock’s lap, his legs on either side.  Like this, he was finally taller than Sherlock and the tall man had to crane his neck back to look up at him.  The kisses started again, sweet and short, one after the other, but then their bodies started a rhythm, their touches getting more dirty as they gripped onto the other.  John’s hands tangled into Sherlock’s hair, while Sherlock gripped onto Johns hips.  They rocked against each other, their erections prominent now, tenting their pants and getting quite uncomfortable being constrained.  Sherlock took one hand off John’s hip to readjust himself, but John reached down, stopping him, and moved back.

His eyes flashed up, meeting Sherlock’s, and he got the hint, lying back down, stretched over the bed, almost humming in anticipation.  John worked his fingers underneath the elastic band on his pants and slowly removed them, practically fling them onto the floor once he was done.  He stared down at Sherlock’s cock, fully engorged and slightly curved.  Reaching out, he wrapped a hand around it and gave it a firm pump, twisting his hand at the end.  The reaction he got out of Sherlock was extraordinary.  The man twisted up off the bed, a choked moan escaping from his throat.  He lay back down, trying to catch his breath.

John smirked, “If that’s how you act to the beginning of a hand job, I can’t wait to see what you look like having an orgasm.”

Sherlock looked down at him, his hair a messy crown and his cheeks a healthy pink, “Then why don’t you get that started, Mr. Watson, or are you all just talk?”  He smirked back.

John let out a laugh and got onto his shins, working his own pants off until he was also fully naked.  He straddled Sherlock’s thighs so that their erections were next to each other’s, but not touching.  Moving his hips, he teased Sherlock as was pleased to hear a whine come out of him.

“How do you want to do this, Sherlock?”  He asked, stopping his movements.

It took a while for Sherlock to understand what he meant, “Well, I’m assuming you want to have penetrative sex, so I suppose I’ll continue to be on the bottom, then?”

John moved forward and kissed him again, “We’ll have it as you want it.”  Sherlock nodded and John moved back, going between his legs.  He bent Sherlock’s legs up and looked at his hole, his cock getting painfully hard just thinking about having this man beneath him.  His eyes traveled up to Sherlock’s cock and he reached out again, working it through his fist.  Sherlock moaned again, arching up into John’s hand, but then he had to pull back down, body shaking.

“I’m so close, John.  If you don’t start now…”

John nodded and reached for the condoms and lube, placing the condoms on the empty side of the bed.  He poured some lube onto his fingers and gently rubbed one around Sherlock’s hole until it relaxed enough, then he pressed forward, getting to the first knuckle on his pointer finger.  Sherlock gasped at the sudden intrusion, making his body relax around it until John was able to sink in to his second knuckle, then it slid all the way in.  John gave a few experimental thrusts, looking up at Sherlock to watch his reaction, then moved more to loosen him.  The second finger went in easier than the first, Sherlock’s body more accepting.  Sherlock was stuck between pulling away from the fingers and pushing back down on them, not sure which way to go.  The decision was made for him when John accidently hit his prostate lightly, making pleasure spiral through his entire body.  He had to reached down and hold onto his prick to stop himself from coming right then.  John waited until Sherlock’s breathing went back to a normal level, the man relaxing against the bed even more now, letting John slip in three fingers now, pumping them in and out of Sherlock.

“Are you okay?“  He asked his lover, stopping for a moment to apply some more lube to his fingers.  Sherlock  nodded, unable to find his voice for a moment.

“Yeah.  It just… feels weird.”

“Well I suppose that’s the way it’s supposed to feel.  Is it a good or bad weird.”

He shook his head, “I can’t tell yet.”

John was pumping four fingers in and out of him now, careful not to brush over his prostate again, “Well tell me immediately if you feel uncomfortable or any pain, okay?  And I’ll stop right away.”

Sherlock nodded, looked down at John between his legs.  John smiled at him, leaning over to leave a quick kiss on his thigh before he slid his fingers free and reached for a condom.  He tore one open with his teeth and rolled it down his cock, quick from experience.  He pumped his fingers over his cock, trying to get the lube onto it, but it wasn’t enough.  He reached for the bottle and applied some more.  He didn’t want to hurt Sherlock on their first night like this.  Lining himself up, he looked up at Sherlock, waiting for permission, which he got in the form of a nod.

But Sherlock was too tense, hands fisting at the sheets.  He put his hands on the man’s hips, rubbing circles into the tender skin with his thumbs, and leaned down, kissing at his stomach.  Sherlock began to melt under him like butter and he was finally able to reach down, realign himself, and push in the head of his cock.  Sherlock’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening like an ‘o.’  But John couldn’t see any pain in his expression so he kept moving forward until he was fully seated inside of Sherlock.

Only then did he allow himself to breath, letting out a deep exhale of the word, “Fuck.”  His thighs were quivering and he gripped tighter to Sherlock’s hips, trying to ground himself.  He shut his eyes and let out a few deep breaths before he opened them again, looking up at Sherlock.  His lover’s brow was knitted together as he frowned at the ceiling.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”  John asked, worried he had missed the signs.  But this didn’t seem like an expression of pain to him.  More like one of wonder.  Sherlock shook his head.

“It still feels… weird.”

“Can you tell what kind yet.”

“Maybe… can you move a bit?”

John gave a few small, shallow thrusts and had to bite his lip to keep back the groans.  Sherlock’s hand landed on John’s and he started to shake his head.  Immediately, John pulled out of him and was up near his face, giving him small kisses on the nose and cheeks.

“I’m sorry.  I wanted tonight to be good.”

John shushed him, “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Sherlock.  I knew this night wouldn’t be perfect.  We’re still learning each other and our boundaries still.  We have a ways to go before we’ll be completely comfortable with having sex.  It’s fine.”

“But I wanted this to be okay, to happen.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to try it a different way next time, okay?”  He kissed Sherlock on the mouth again before he could argue or protest and finally felt the man nod against him.

“But we’re still hard,” Sherlock noted when they moved away from the kiss and John looked down at them, both of their erections still waiting to be relived.

“Well,  let’s try this, then,” John said, sitting this time so their cocks finally touched.  His own was still lubricated, condoms still on, so he pulled the condom off and tossed it, just barely managing to get it into the bin.  He poured a bit more lube onto his hand and grabbed both of their cocks in it, giving it a quick pull.  The both let out matching moans at the touch.  John shuffled forward a bit more, his leg’s tightening around Sherlock’s hips.  He leaned over with a smile, pausing in his movements, “This good?”

Sherlock breathed out, “Wonderful.”

Grinning, John started up his hand again, even rocking into the movement.  Sherlock started doing the same as well, lifting his hips up to move into John’s hand.  He couldn’t quite make a fist around the both of them, but there was enough stimulation from one hand alone that Sherlock was coming first, body going taught and his head thrown back in abandon as his orgasm swept through him.  John released him prick and quickly jacked off over Sherlock’s spent body, the image of Sherlock’s face during orgasm pertinent in his mind and soon he was coming as well, letting out a deep groaned as he spilled out into his hand and onto Sherlock’s stomach.  He gasped as he came down from his high, both of them breathing heaving.

The air smelt like sex and sweat now and John absolutely loved it.  It was as it the room around them was buzzing in unused energy, just waiting to be used at another time. He rose onto shaky feet and went to go get a flannel wetting it.  He brought it back and cleaned them both off, throwing it on the floor as well when he was done.  The condoms and lube when into an empty drawer and finally John lay down next to Sherlock, completely exhausted.  He curled up next to the man, face pressed against the curve of his lover’s neck, every exhale he took warm against Sherlock’s skin.  He tilted his head back and kissed Sherlock’s neck.

“How was it?”

“Fantastic,” he answered immediately, “Overwhelming.  There’s so much data.  So much to go over.”

“You can do that later,” John laughed, “Now we relax and get some sleep.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it as he thought better of it.  He sat up, John following him, to pull back the duvet and sheets and climb underneath.  John settled back down next to him as the blankets were pulled back up.  Once again, he curled up next to Sherlock, his head on his shoulder, and he let out a breath, letting his body relax as it left him.  Sherlock wrapped an arm around him and tilted his head down to kiss John on the top of his head and, together like that, they fell asleep.

* * *

 

They woke up in a tangle of sweaty, tangled limbs, but it was perfect in every way.  Well, almost.  It went downhill after breakfast.

“Well, I better be off to the Doctor again.”  John said after he finished cleaning his dishes.

Sherlock looked up sharply, “Why?”

“Well, I can’t change history, can I?  You said you’ve already had my seventh visit, so I need to go have that visit.”

“But I didn’t like your seventh visit,” Sherlock pouted.

“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad,” John teased, missing the look of sadness that flashed over Sherlock’s face.  “And, remember how I told you yesterday… how the Doctor has more heart than you?”

He nodded slowly, unsure where this was going and feeling like he wouldn’t like it.

“Well, it’s true.”  His heart sank, “He does have more heart than you,”  John walked up to him, a teasing glint in his eye and he poked at Sherlock’s chest, “Because his species has two hearts.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise.  Well he hadn’t been expecting that.  He grinned as he thought about it and John smiled back, relieved.  He pulled Sherlock’s head forward, kissing him on the forehead and the lips before he went to put on his shoes and jacket.

“Well, I best be off.  Don’t burn down the flat while I’m gone, and hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

Sherlock stood, “Soon.  Right, of course.”

“I will come back, you know that, right?”

He nodded, “Just a bit unsure is all.”

John pulled him down for another kiss, “Well don’t be.”

He kissed him back, trying to pour all his emotion into that one touch and John seemed to get it, leaning further in, but they finally had to pull back for air.

“I will return,” John promised.

“I know.”

“Past my seventh visit, I mean.”

“If you say so.”

John sighed and gave him a quick peck, “I will, trust me.”

This time he got a nod out of the man and he figured that would be the best he would get.  He smiled at him and left.  He stepped out of the building and was about to hail a cab when a familiar black car stopped in front of him.  He sighed, not really in the mood for Mycroft’s theatrics for that day, but he figured he would have to deal with it, since he basically shagged his brother the previous day.  The back door slid open and he climbed in, taking a seat and facing Mycroft.  He closed the door and Mycroft stared at him.

“Address?”

“This my cab now?”  John smirked, but said the address where the TARDIS was parked and the vehicle moved away from the kerb and back into traffic.

“So I believe congratulations are in order, Dr. Watson.”  Mycroft’s sure voice broke through the silence.

“Sure, if you want to look at it that way,” John grumbled, “But Sherlock and my relationship is none of your business.”

He tilted his head, “Everything regarding my brother is my business.”

“Oh, really?  Want me to send you a detailed report of what we do every time we have sex, then, since it’s so your business?”

He saw Mycroft make a small grimace and counted it as a victory.

“No, but I just want to let you know that if you break my brother’s heart or if I think you are no longer beneficial or good for him, I will cut you out of his life and dispose of you.”

“All right…” John said, tapping his fingers against his knee, “Well, it’s nice to feel welcomed into this family.  Can’t wait to hear from your mother, then.”

“You’re hardly part of the family just because my brother and you are sleeping together now,” Mycroft said back quickly, “And I am grateful to you for being part of my brother’s life.  You have changed him for the better.  Thank you for that.”

“That the only thanks I’m going to get from you?”

“Yes,” the car came to a stop, “Now get out.”

John rolled his eyes, and opened the door, climbing out.  He walked over to the TARDIS and knocked on the door.  The Doctor answered it a minute later with a wide grin, a pair of goggles on top of his head.

“John!  How was your visit this time?”

“Wonderful,” he grinned back, the Doctor’s smile contagious.

“Good.  Good, good, good,” he spun back into the TARDIS, “Now, as soon as I can get a few wires repaired, we can be on our way.”  He said, running his hands over the console, then mumbled, “Just need to find my goggles.”

“Um, Doctor?”

“Yes?”

John tapped his head and the Doctor immediately reached up to feel his own, hands landing on the goggles.  He grinned.  “Oh, it’s good you’re back, John.”  Then he spun away to continue the repairs whil John took a seat with a happy smile.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Final chapters and I do not get along.

“Oh, John?  Back so soon?”  The Doctor turned with a smile at the opening of the TARDIS door.  His smile fell as he saw the expression on John’s face.  “What happened?  What went wrong?”

“He was unconscious.”

“Unconscious?  Did he get hurt on a case?”

“He was in a coma.  Caused by himself.”

The Doctor rushed over to John, “Suicide?”

John shook his head, “No.  Accidental overdose.  I hope.”

“Is there anything I can do?”  He wanted to hug the man, but wasn’t sure how he would react to that kind of treatment.  John nodded.  “What?  What can I do?”

“Find somewhere exciting to help me get my mind off of that.”

He gave him a shaky smile, “Oh, I know just the place.  You’re going to love it.  Gorgeous scenery.  Unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, of course.”  He spun away to start up the TARDIS, setting the coordinates.  “Hold on!”  He yelled with a small laugh as he pushed a lever and the TARDIS flew off.

The next thing John knew, he was on another planet and, as was custom when accompanying the Doctor on a journey, they were running away from danger.  But, John had to give it to him, it did keep his mind off everything other than the fact that they were in mortal danger of sorts.

“So what are we running from this time?”   John managed to gasp out as they rounded a corner.  He really wasn’t as young as he used to be.  He had hardly been able to keep up with Sherlock years ago, so how was he supposed to keep up with an alien who had ‘running from other aliens that are scary’ on his hobby list?

“A werewolf!”  The doctor cried back and John ran after him, wondering if he had heard him correctly.

“A… werewolf?  Like the ones from horrible teenage romance books?”

The Doctor shot him a look over his shoulder, “Hardly.  They’re a alien species.  Turn into wolves during the full moon.  Your storytellers got that right, at least.  And they seem to have an aversion to mistletoe.”

“Well have you got some of that in one of your pockets?”  John asked sarcastically, “Or are we just going to keep running until the sun comes up?”

“Hmm, let me check- wait.  No, I don’t think I do actually have any.”  The Doctor frowned and John rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t being literal, Doctor.”

“Oh.  Really?  I can never tell.  You humans are always being sarcastic.  I try sometimes, but it never turns out right.  Anyway, back to the TARDIS it is, since there’s no special room this time around.  And it would be best to do this before we become a meal.”

He changed his course and John followed, hearing a howl behind them.  It was coming closer.

“So how exactly did a werewolf land on this planet, then?  We’re here because of the landscape, not the natives, since there aren’t exactly any!”  He yelled after him, trying to keep up with his pace.

“That’s probably why it’s here.  Either they came of their own volition or they were sent here to keep others out of danger.  Who knows.  There could be a whole group of them here and we just happened to run into one on the night it changes.  Oh, I love coincidences,” he shouted in glee.

“I don’t like coincidences with sharp claws and fangs, Doctor.”

“Oh, right.  Those aren’t usually the best, are they?”  He turned another bend, running over rocks and vegetation and finally John could see the blue police box in the distance.  He looked over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn’t.  Before they had been running through an area with obstacles.  But here, on the flat ground, the werewolf was picking up speed, bounding after them at a faster pace than before.

“Doctor!  It’s gaining on us!”

“I can only tell you to run faster and we’ll hopefully make it!”

“I don’t like that word.”

“What?  Hopefully?  But it’s… hopeful.”

John sighed, pushing himself forward, making himself go just a bit faster.  He could feel his lungs and legs beginning to ache with the strain, his breath coming short and ragged.  They were closer to the TARDIS now and John did dare look back over his shoulder again, afraid of what he’d see behind him.  The Doctor got to the doors first, pushing them open despite the prominent sign that told him to pull and turned back to wave John on, but instead got one wave before he lost himself staring at the werewolf.  Yeah.  John didn’t really need that.  He put forward some more power and surged forward, through the open doors, which the Doctor slammed shut behind him and not a moment too soon.  A loud thud was heard on the other side, followed by howls and snarls, and the Doctor locked the door and quickly made his way to the console, starting it up and setting off.

When the TARDIS finally came to a halt, the Doctor collapsed against the banister, chest heaving, and John wasn’t much better off.  He made his way up to the console on shaky feet and bent double before sitting down.  The Doctor jumped back quicker then him, going back to the console to mess with the buttons and monitors.

“All right?  Where to next?  Anywhere you want.  You get to pick this time.  We could go to-“

“Actually, Doctor, I think I should go back.”

“Go back?  To the werewolf?  Now, John, I don’t think that’s very wise.”

“No, Doctor.  Back home.  My home.  Permanently.”

The Doctor’s smile fell for a moment before it came back, strained and fake, “Oh, right.  Of course.  Back.”  He shuffled his feet awkwardly, wringing his hands together, “Would you like to see space one last time before I drop you back off in London?”

John glanced toward the door, “Where are we?”

“Floating in space.  I think there’s a nebula by us.”  He bound down to the door and threw it open.  As he had said, there was a nebula off in the distance, a spectrum of beautiful colors.  He stood up and walked over to the door, gripping onto the doorway as he leaned out to peer around.

“Yeah,” he said, voice weak, “Why not?”

The Doctor gave a nod and moved away, back to the console, probably to give both of them space.  John took a seat in the doorway, his feet hanging out of the TARDIS as he stared out at the stars.  It was amazing out here, in space.  A once in a lifetime experience.  And, for most everyone else, an experience they would never get.  He leaned against the doorframe with a sigh, feeling the TARDIS hum with energy around him.  In the end, he wasn’t sure how long he had sat there, enjoying the beautiful view, but he jumped when the Doctor came up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Time to go back?”  He asked.

He nodded, standing up with some help from the Doctor, who put out a hand to make sure he didn’t fall back out the open doorway, “Yeah.  Time to go back.  And, Doctor, thank you for all that you’ve done.”

The Doctor smiled, a genuine one this time, “It was no problem, John.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  It was my pleasure to have you on board.  And I think the TARDIS quite liked you as well.”

He chuckled, “Well, I quite liked the TARDIS as well.”  They both walked back up to the main console, the Doctor running his hands down it.

“You know… if I give you my number, then you can call me anytime.  I can take you and Sherlock on a honeymoon neither of you would forget.”

John blushed, “I don’t know.  That might-“

“Remember.  I can travel through time and space.  So when the honeymoon actually is is of no matter to me.  Just call and I’ll be right along.”  He scribbled out a number on a piece of scratch paper, handing it over.

John took it with a sigh, “All right.  But, knowing Sherlock, he’s not much of a marriage or honeymoon guy, I mean he once said he was married to his work, so-“

“John,” the Doctor cut him off, a brow raised, “Everyone is a honeymoon person when they’re with me.”

John raised a brow of his own and let out a laugh, “Right…  I guess I’ll see you sometime in the future, then.”

“Yes, you shall,” The Doctor said, scribbling down his number on a piece of paper and handing it over to John, who looked it over before quickly putting it into his pocket.  The Doctor quickly turned knobs and pushed levers until the TARDIS started spinning through space again.  John held onto the banister, bracing himself as the ship shook and shuddered.  When it finally came to a halt, John let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding.  He walked over to the Doctor, holding out a hand.  The other man stared at it for a while as though it was an unknown being before reaching out and grasping it, giving it a firm shake.

“It’s been an honor, Dr. Watson, to travel with you.”

“I think that’s my line, Doctor.  It’s been amazing traveling with you.  Absolutely amazing.”

“But you have something more amazing to return to, don’t you?”  The Doctor grinned and before John could say any more, he turned him around and led him to the door.  “You’re not the first to leave me voluntarily because there’s something here on this amazing planet that has more of a hold over their heart.  And you won’t be the last.  It’s about time I started looking for someone.  I’m sorry to tell you I took you in during my time of grief, as I saw you in the same situation.  I didn’t want either of us to be alone.”

“I’m sure you’ll find them,” John said, putting a hand on the knob to leave, “This person you’re looking for.”

“I hope so.  She’s impossible, you see.  I’ve met her before twice.  She died both times.  I’m wondering if I’ll be able to find her another time.  I’m thinking about going back a couple years or so.  To see if I can think of something and figure it out.  I’ll have to see.  Knowing the TARDIS, I’ll end up in a completely different time than I expected.  But she always means good.”

“Well, good luck Doctor,” he opened the door, stepping out and looking up at the familiar cloudy sky, “I’ll call you when I need you.”

The Doctor grinned, “You better, John.  Or I’ll come visit you.”

John gave a fake shudder, then laughed, “Goodbye, Doctor.”  He shut the door behind him and started his way down the empty street.  He forced himself not to look back, not even when he heard the familiar TARDIS noises.  Only when they stopped did he turn and look back, finding nothing on the street behind him.  He let out a sigh, then straightened his spine, rolled back his shoulders, and made his way home.  It was colder now, much more than it had been when he had originally left with the doctor, a harsh crispness to the air that bit at his nose.  John tucked his hands away in his pocket, balling them into fists as he decided to just walk home instead of hailing a cab.  The Doctor hadn’t dropped him off that far from the flat anyway.  He moved out from the quite streets, making his way to a main one, and kept moving forward, back to Baker Street.

* * *

Why did Lestrade always insist on calling him to boring and stupid crime scenes?  Sure, he was constantly looking around for John, waiting for him to appear again, but that didn’t mean he was willing to look at an obvious murder.  The fact that Lestrade and his crew couldn’t tell that it was the landlord’s son that had killed the tenant was astounding.  Although the fact that Anderson had gotten everything wrong, yet again, had been expected, of course.  The moment Anderson was correct was the day Sherlock would just give up on the human species.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his keys, quickly unlocking the front door and stepping inside with a sigh.  Sherlock wiped his feet off on the rug and stopped when he heard a noise.  He glanced up, looking over toward Mrs. Hudson’s door, but it was closed, the lights off.  He looked up at the ceiling, toward his own flat as though he could see through the floor and grinned when he realized that John was back.  Already.  He bounded toward the stairs and took them two at a time up to his flat, where the door was already open.

John looked toward him from where he was cleaning up the desk, though, really, it was never going to be truly clean for longer than a few minutes.  John should have known that, he scolded the man in his mind.  Moving forward, he began to try to hug John, but was suddenly held back.  He looked at John in confusion as the man looked him over, then placed a hand on his chest, letting out a small, shuddering sigh as it found his heart beat.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, you bloody bastard,” John’s voice was shaky and Sherlock hated it, knowing he had made it that way.

“I won’t,” he said immediately, assuming he was referring to his seventh visit, the time he had overdosed, even though that seemed ages ago to Sherlock, it could have been days or even just minutes for John,  “I haven’t touched it since then, I promise.”

“Don’t ever touch it again, Sherlock.”  Sherlock barely managed a nod in response before John finally pulled him in for that hug, holding onto him tightly and he wasted no time in wrapping his own arms around the smaller man and pressing close to him.  He bent his head down, kissing John on the top of his.  He looked back up at Sherlock, and leaned up, giving him a proper kiss.

“This is your eight visit, then?”  He asked once they pulled apart.  John nodded, readjusting his jumper and pushing back his hair.

“And my last one.”  Sherlock’s heart sank and he was at a loss for words.  Last one?  Did that mean John wasn’t planning on returning?  Was it because of the drugs?

“John, that overdose was months ago.  I’m completely clean and would never think of doing such a thing again.  It was before we started whatever we are.  I’m not going to start again, John, because I don’t need it if-“ John stopped him before he could continue his hysterics.

“I meant it’s the last one because I’m staying.  I bid my farewell to the Doctor earlier.”

Oh.  _Oh._ Well that was definitely better than the other outcome those words could have meant.  He grinned, pulling John in for another hug, enjoying the small squeak of surprise he made in reply, but then John was hugging him back, a smile of his own on his face.

“So that’s it?  You’re staying now?  Forever?”  He asked, wanting more confirmation that John was indeed staying this time around.  John tilted his head back to look up at him with a smile, “Forever.  Though the Doctor did offer something…”

“I’m better than him,” he said instantly.

John laughed, “I’m sorry.  I had to word it that way to see how you would react.”

“Well then what did he offer?”

He pulled away again to reach into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone number.  “He offered to take us on our honeymoon.”  Sherlock was quiet and John quickly looked up at him, “I, um… told him you probably weren’t a honeymoon, or marriage, guy… so we wouldn’t be needing it.  I can- uh,” he looked back around at the number, then crumpled it up in his hand, “Just get rid of it.”

“You’re an imbecile,” Sherlock said, grabbing onto John’s hand and pulling the fingers back before making off with the crumpled piece of paper.  He gently smoothed it out against the desk as best he could.  “I’m not one for relationships, John.  But we’re in one.  What makes you think I wouldn’t want to have more with you?  There are more benefits to getting married to you than there are drawbacks.  You’ve probably been in this relationship for less time than I have, but I’ve been with you and without you for months and my feelings for you haven’t changed.  If you walked through that door later today with a ring, I would say ‘yes’ without hesitation, John.  And, well, a honeymoon to a different planet is better than one to a different island, wouldn’t you say?”

He turned to look back at John, papers smoothed out, but still wrinkled, to find the other man had his mouth hanging open in shock.  Sherlock gave a small chuckle and walked back over to John to lightly tap his chin up, closing his mouth, “I’m not one to give into emotions, John.  I used to think that sentiment was found on the losing side, as well as love being a disadvantage.  But you’re not normal, John.  You never have been.  You can’t be counted toward those thoughts.  They were made before I had you.  You’ve changed me, John.  I just hope these feeling I have for you are for the better.”

“They are,” John said softly, seemingly finding his voice again, “Oh, they definitely are, Sherlock.”  He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, a hand tangling into his hair, and pulled him down for a kiss, long and sweet, taking his time now that they finally had some.

“Why were you so angry about the Woman?”

The question was so sudden, it threw John for a loop and he looked up at Sherlock again, a brow raised, “What are you- oh.  The Woman.  Irene?  Well,” he moved back, scratching at the back of his neck, “I was jealous, to put it simply.”

“Why?”

“Because you lied to me about her.  She seemed important to you.”

“It’s true that I lied about that to you, but I did that since the beginning.  And, may I remind you, you’re the one who lied to me first, told me she was in witness protection in the US.”

“Yes, well, Mycroft told me to.  And he usually knows best.”

“I saved her.  I went there and saved her.”

“Well why did you do that.”

Sherlock stared at John, then reached up, brushing a hand through his hair, “I felt a connection to her.  The time we spent together was… interesting, fun.  But it’s nothing like what we have together, John.  It doesn’t even compare.  I wouldn’t have gone if I was certain my life would have been in danger, I can tell you that.  But, for you, John?  I would give you my life.”

He recaptured John’s lips and John could only close his eyes and cling onto the older man, holding on for the ride.  After a while, they moved back to breath, gaze meeting each other’s and not breaking away.

“Over the last five minutes I think you’ve told me you love me 20 different ways without actually using the words ‘I love you’.”

Sherlock grinned, “I’m quite good with words.”

“That you are,” he gave him a quick peck, “Do you want to head to the bedroom?”

“But I’m not tired,” Sherlock moved back, a bit confused and John laughed at the expression on his face and suddenly clarity came to Sherlock.

“Oh.  You mean _that._ ”

“Yes, I mean that,” he gave him another kiss, “Do you want to?”

“Actually, yes.  I think I do.”

“Good,” he took him by the hand, leading him to the bedroom, “Because I’ve been wanting to try something new with you.”

* * *

**Six Months Later**

John leaned against Sherlock, legs stretched over of the rest of the sofa as his hands fiddled with the ring on his left hand.  He glanced up at Sherlock, craning his neck back, “Are you at least a bit nervous?”

Sherlock tore his eyes off the television screen and returned John’s gaze, “No.  Why should I be?”

“Because in less than a month we’re going to be getting married.”

He shrugged, “I’m not nervous, no.  Nervousness suggests that I am scared, having doubts.  I’m not, because I know I love you.”

John laughed at that, arching himself up to kiss Sherlock on the chin, “Somehow you always know the right thing to say for almost every situation.”

“I noticed you said ‘almost’.”

“Yes, because sometimes you are utter crap at it,” John teased.

Sherlock grinned and kissed John on the head before shifting to get up, John moving to sit on his own.  He made his way over to a picture frame on the wall, gently pulling it up and off the nail it was hanging off of.  Walking back over to John, he held it out, “I believe you need to call this number, then?  Don’t want to do it last minute.  Besides, I suppose we can invite him to the wedding.”

John took the frame from Sherlock, staring at the crumpled paper framed behind the glass, the paper with the Doctor’s number on it.  It had been Sherlock’s idea to frame it, said it would have gotten lost in the sea of papers in their house otherwise, and John though it quite fit the eclectic items they had hanging on the wall throughout the rest of the room.  He looked pointedly over at the Cluedo game still stabbed to the wall above the mantle.  His gaze went back to the number as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.  He dialed it quickly and held the phone to his ear, listening to the ringback tone.  For a moment he was scared that the Doctor wouldn’t answer, that something had happened to him, or maybe this was the wrong number, but then there was a click as someone picked up.

“Hello?  Who is this?”

John smiled at the familiar voice, “Doctor?”

“John?  John!”  The Doctor yelled and he could practically hear the smile in his words.

“Yes, Doctor.  It’s me.  Look, I was wondering if your offer still stood.”

“Well, of course!”

“All right, then.  About this honeymoon… it’s not going to be adventurous is it?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was listening to the conversation and looked quite interested by that idea.  He grinned.

“God, yes.”

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story!


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